"Needing a snooze?" I asked, taking a seat on my bed to his left.

"Probably," he sighed, forcing a half-hearted grin. "Doubt if I can, though."

"Yep. I know the feeling. Too much thinking about how things could turn so bad so quick." I stood over him, extended my hand. "Sergeant Frank Jenkins. Turret gunner on the Lucy Lu out of Cheshunt."

His grip was stronger than mine. "Lieutenant Harold Tripp, pilot of the Yankee Pride out of Nuthampstead."

I sat on my bed, scrutinized his cut-up face. "Tell you what, Lieutenant Tripp..."

"Harold," he gave me permission.

"Sure, sure. Call me Frank. Are you thirsty?"

"Very," he gingerly drew back his blanket.

"No. You stay put. I'll get it." I dropped to a knee, reached under his bed, pulled out his washpan with a tin cup, bar of soap, toothpaste and brush, shaving razor, and a towel inside, his one-week supply, courtesy of the Red Cross. "I'll be right back," I said with cup in hand. Upon my return, he greedily gulped while I supported the back of his head with my palm. "Want another?"

He wiped his mouth with his fingers. "No, thank you. That will do."

"All right, Harold," I put his cup into the pan and pushed it under. "Try to rest. That's what I'll be doing right here next to you."

"Can do, Frank. Thanks again."

True to my word, I laid down and kept quiet, but only for a minute or two. That's when Harold rolled onto his side and faced me. "Frank?"

"Yeah."

"Every man here is skinny as a rail. I'm guessing you didn't come in that way."

"True." I turned onto my side so I could see his reaction to what I had to say. "They're starving us, Harold. Slowly but surely. We get water in the morning. Soup and a chunk of black sawdust bread for supper. We call it that because there's more sawdust in it than flour. Most men don't eat it. Those that do get stomach cramps something awful. Soup is a rutabaga boiled in water. Every now and then we get a potato, but either way each man gets about ten swallows of soup, one tiny piece of vegetable."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since September. I'm guessing I've lost thirty pounds or better. There's no man here who's been in camp more than a year. They're all dead. Dysentery or starvation, take your pick." I waited, taking his silence to mean he wanted to hear more. "Some of the officers and enlisted men who were in bad shape got shipped down to Luft 3 last spring. That's Goehring's quality camp for airmen, or so I'm told. The one the Germans show off to the outside world so they'll think all prisoners are in a good place. This camp here, Harold, is not a good place. I don't even know why it's called a Luft. Only Luftwaffe I've seen is the Commandant. Rest are regular Army or SS." I reached for the corner post of my bed. "See this?"

"Yeah."

"Been sawed off. These used to all be tripled-decker bunks. This was once a forty-eight man barrack, according to Jack."

"You mean the barrack's rep?"

"That's him. He's been here since May, and he said that's when the Germans came in and cut off all the top bunks. Chopped them into firewood for their stoves. Officer's quarters and soldier's barracks."

Harold stared blankly toward the floor, and then locked eyes with mine. "Think the guys here can make it another month or two?"

"Yeah. I heard you telling them our men are in Belgium and the east side of France."

"Some are saying we'll be inside Germany by first of the year."

"Well, I know it's getting rough on the Nazis. Our portions of grub shrink every day. I mean, how desperate are they? Can't even spare a few rutabagas for their prisoners. Tell you something else I've noticed."

"What's that?"

"Fewer guards. Like they're taking soldiers out of here to be used somewhere else."

"Maybe east. The Russians are closing in, too."

"Could be. All I know is, if I see a way out of here, I'm running. Hell, before long I'll be too weak to stand. I'd rather take my chances roaming the countryside than to stay here and starve."

"Hmm... I don't know, Frank. This camp might be liberated by New Year's. Can you hold out a few more weeks? No use getting shot when the end is so near."

"Well, Lieutenant, you know more about it than I do, so I'll hang with you for now. All right?"

"Sure, sure. We'll stick together."

Funny how he made it sound as though we needed each other on equal terms. After all, I was the three-month veteran of prison life. Of course, that also meant he was stronger than I by three months. Guess it all evened out.

(end of excerpt 1)

later, in the yard waiting to be counted

Harold eyed each tower, pivoting his body as little as possible. "You're right. When did you notice that?"

"Yesterday. There's fewer guards on the ground for this little procedure here, too. Trust me, I've been counting them every day the three months I've been here. I know they took some men out of here days before you arrived, and as of three days ago their numbers have steadily dwindled ."

"What do you think it means?"

The whistles blew and our barrack's reps brought us to attention. "Later," I whispered.

German guards made their counts, while dogs and handlers patrolled at both ends of each row. Our dog never gave Harold and me any special attention. Not since that one time. Not even when his handler took him down our row at least once a day. Testing the dog, no doubt, and us, but the hard-working Shepherd sauntered past us with a glance no different than given any other men.

With the count completed and company dismissed, I finished my thought. "I think it's falling apart. Either they've been called to the front lines, or they're simply abandoning their posts and going home."

We meandered about the yard as Harold pondered my suggestions. Since our dog incident, Harold liked to keep him in our sights after the mid-day count. Long distance, of course, so as to not draw attention from the dog's handler, but Harold seemed obsessed with observing our dog's activities. "I can't quite figure him out, Frank. Somehow, he doesn't go about his business like the other dogs." He shrugged his shoulders with a chuckle, "I say that every day, don't I? Bet you're sick of it."

"No. I'm sick of being cold and hungry, Harold, but I like listening to you. I know you wouldn't say it if you didn't mean it."

"Thank you for that," he stuffed his hands deeper into his jacket's pockets. "Some men would think I'm plumb crazy. I'm glad you don't." Harold smiled at me. Winked at me. "Come on, let's head on in."

As we walked slowly toward our barrack, he finally addressed my thoughts on the decreased number of guards at our camp. "You know, Frank, you might be right about your first idea."

"Sure. They're calling men up to the front lines. You said we might be inside their borders by first of the year."

"Yeah, but I don't think General Eisenhower would launch an offensive in weather like this. Not without air support."

"Maybe not. Bottom line is, fewer Germans are guarding this camp. I think it's time we start scheming for ways out of here."

"Not until after Monday."

"Why Monday?"

"Too cold. How far could we get dressed like this?"

"I could get as far as I need to," my tone grew sharp, determined. "I am not going to stay here and starve to death, Harold. If that means sacrificing my fingers and toes, so be it."

"I know. You're hurting. Hell, I'm hurting too and I've only been here a week, but you've got to hang on, buddy." He stepped ahead, stopped, and turned to face me. "Our time will come. I can feel it. Come hell or high water, I'll get us out of here. I am not going to let you die in this god-forsaken country, Frank, whether we're inside these fences or out. You're too important. Okay?"

Had it not been so fricking cold I might have dropped a tear or two. Human compassion is a precious commodity in a prisoner of war camp. Harold Tripp had quickly become precious to me. "Sure, Harold. I'll stick with you. You're all the motivation I need, in case you didn't know it."

"Good. Now, you want to know why I said wait until Monday?"

"Why?"

"Because I plan on spending my Christmas with the only man who matters to me. Deal?"

"Deal."

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