Blackbone Read Online Free PDF Page A

political party of which I am not a member. I am an officer of the Wehrmacht. I realize it’s difficult for you, but please make that distinction.”
    Steuben spoke excellent English with only the trace of an accent. Gilman figured him for about forty. He was heavyset, with wolfish features and an impressive air of authority. Bruckner, on the other hand, wore a phony smile. Behind it lurked pure terror. He kept glancing at Hopkins and tightening his grip on the dog’s leash.
    Steuben saluted Gilman. “Blackbone is not your typical American resort, Herr Major, but should you desire company, I am happy to offer my quarters as a refuge from the daily bore. You play poker, Major?”
    Gilman returned the salute. “Sure do. But you know the rules—no fraternizing.”
    “Wie schade!”
    “Yes, it is a pity.”
    “You speak German, Major?”
    “Just enough to tell a prisoner what to do.” Gilman grinned. Steuben’s smile froze.
    He recovered quickly and bowed with that curious European chickenlike nod. “I am happy to report that in my time in your country, I have acquired what the Americans call a sense of humor. I shall be most happy to take it home with me when the festivities are over.”
    Hopkins spat and glared at Steuben. “Don’t be fooled by his jokes, Major. Steuben here is the leader of the pack. What he says, goes. If the Germans make trouble, you can be sure he’s behind it.”
    Steuben bowed again. “I am sure Major Gilman knows a troublemaker when he sees one, Captain.”
    Hopkins took a step toward Steuben, his features going taut with anger. “I don’t think the major needs to hear any more from you.”
    Steuben faced him without expression. There was nothing more Hopkins could say or do, so he whirled sharply and glared at Bruckner.
    “You still got that damned dog?”
    Bruckner shrank slightly and looked at Gilman with a bent smile that seemed forced under his natural pinched scowl.
    “Leutnant, I’d like you to speak freely,” Gilman said. “How is it here? Are you comfortable?”
    Bruckner stared at him. “Ja, ” he said hesitantly.
    “And your dog? How does he get along?”
    “He eats scraps, Major,” Steuben cut in. “He’s really no bother.”
    Hopkins strolled around Gilman and approached the dog. Bruckner eyed him warily. “Don’t worry, Leutnant,” said Hopkins. “I’m not going to kick the sonofabitch. I don’t kick dogs.”
    Gilman felt the tension even more than the chill in the air. He had learned one thing without anybody telling him to his face: the Germans hated Hopkins. And they feared him.
    Gilman knelt down. Slowly he raised a hand. Cautiously, the dog approached and sniffed it. That led to some petting and stroking, then the dog was licking his hand and Gilman was scratching its ears, and Bruckner knelt down with him and together they petted the dog.
    “His name is Churchill,” Bruckner said, almost apologetically.
    Gilman snorted a laugh. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the Germans along the slope watching him and nodding to each other. Yes, sir, best move he could have made. Pet the dog, make some friends.
     
    The barracks huts looked a lot worse close up—warped walls and rot, and great flaps of tar paper hanging over the edges of the roofs. The huts had been constructed on stilts with about eighteen inches of crawl space beneath. There were a few windows and a door at each end. None of the doors were seated right. And at some of them, there were no steps, just a sharp drop—bad for sleepwalkers.
    Inside, the huts were sectioned off into rooms on either side and an aisle down the center. The walls were thin plywood sheets. There were double bunks, and the Germans slept eight to a room. No frills. Some rooms had windows, others did not. The shower hut was a communal facility with a urinal trough, a few unenclosed pots, a long sink, and mirror for shaving and washing clothes. Most of the hut was taken up by a large shower stall with a