Chapter Three

The gun rose. "Take him to the truck," the Sergeant ordered.

Something hit him hard from behind. A fist or a handgun, Walker couldn't tell. But it hurt. He stumbled forward, clasping his hand to his neck. "Move!" another soldier yelled, pushing him in the back with a rifle.

As they stepped off of the pier and onto the dock, Walker was surprised to see so few people there. It was such a crowded city, buildings built almost on top of one another in crooked fashion. By rights the docks should have been crawling with fishermen, sailors anything. But now there were only the Kriegesmarines on the pier and his SS guards.

The soldier behind him shoved the butt of his rifle into Walker's back again, causing him to lurch forward. The cobblestone street was slick, but he caught himself and didn't fall. Ahead was the truck, a big, plain truck; it rumbled with an unspoken menace ready to take him to god knows where. He had heard the horror stories of the SS and what they did to their prisoners.

Walker's mind raced as he neared that truck. He couldn't escape. He didn't know the city, and there were too many Nazis with guns. He might have been able to out fight them in the air, but here he was on the ground. And if he left this place, he didn’t even know where he was, where would he run to? For all he knew he could be running away from the allied lines. But he was being pushed closer and closer to the truck. There was nothing he could do.

The drive in the back of an open truck through the streets of Tiran was a shock. The air was warm, it was early May and the heat was bearable, and Walker let it stir his hair as the truck bounced along the rough cobble streets climbing past the tall narrow buildings towards the fortress atop the island. Life carried on there, despite the war. Men and women managing small shops and bistros looked up at the American airman bouncing past them in the truck between his SS guards.

He watched them in return, feeling sadness for them and the war that had placed the German’s on their doorsteps. No body wanted an occupation force to invade their home, disrupt their lives. He hoped that wherever this Island was it would be in the path of the American army; let them taste a little liberty.

The truck swung under a massive stone gate house and bounced along a wooden bridge into a courtyard where it came to rest. The guards jumping down and motioning to him with their MP-40’s that he should get down as well.

Another soldier grabbed Walker's shoulder and pulled him backwards from the truck. He couldn't get his feet under him fast enough, and he fell hard onto the hard ground. The breath was knocked from his chest in a rush, and his back stung from the impact.

Walker had managed to get to his knees when he one of the soldiers kicked him in the ribs, sending him back to the ground. Damn the Geneva Convention he thought, and every nerve in him screamed at him to turn and kill that soldier with his bare hands. But he knew they would shoot him in an instant if he even made a move in that direction. So he stood as quickly as he could and moved toward where the guards were gesturing.

He did as he was told, still feeling shaky after his captivity aboard the U-boat. He followed their instructions to the letter, allowing himself to be led up steps and through the confusing maze of stone corridors till he was thrust into an office with a desk clerk who processed him methodically.

Name, rank, serial number. There was no attempt at interrogation, why bother. His information was a month old and for a different part of Europe. He had nothing of use for the SS. He was simply another prisoner brought to them and given a number, just another mouth to feed. They took his photograph, issued him a prisoners card and that was it.

When he was thrust out of the office, a burly looking sergeant led him into the inner courtyard and he saw the first friendly faces he had seen in almost a month. They looked at him with surprise. Soldiers of various different armies in worn uniforms and battered boots. The war weary.

He probably didn’t look much better, he hadn’t bathed in a month and his beard itched. But it was still good to see familiar uniforms and hear English spoken. He smiled as he stumbled down the steps and nearly collapsed. One of the guards lashed out with his boot, sending the Captain sprawling. He rounded, struggling to his feet, murder in his eyes, they had finally pushed him too far... but the German guard simply turned his back on him and walked away.

"They would have killed you if you tried," A broad shouldered man said in a coarse voice, the insignia on his stained Khaki uniform marked him a Navy Master Chief.

Walker was still angry and his words came out sharply. "Do you read minds?"

"I don't need to." The man answered. "I can see it in your eyes." Strangely, now that he got a second look at them the other prisoners didn’t look beaten or weary at all. Walker couldn't think how to describe it. Apprehensive perhaps, and cynical, but the defeat in their eyes was gone now.

He was helped to his feet by a couple of enlisted men, who carried him into one of the small barrack buildings on stilts tucked on the far side of the courtyard compound. They sat him into a chair and an officer, a British Lieutenant by his uniform, handed him a cup of something that smelled vaguely like tea. He accepted it with gratitude.

He sipped it and closed his eyes for a moment.

A second British Lieutenant was kneeling beside him checking his pulse, what resembled a medical bag beside him. He looked up, “His blood pressure is a bit off, but he should be alright after a bit of rest and regular exercise.” He stood up satisfied and stepped back. Walker took a deep breath and looked up at the man the doctor had been talking to.

The US army Colonel rested a hand on the crooked table as he looked down at the weary airman. His hair was dark, parted smartly to one side, but a few strands escaped to hand down over his forehead, but they were the only part of him that seemed to have given up and accepted the fate of a German prisoner. His square jaw was set in deep consideration as he watched Walker a moment, before he sat down opposite him.

“Captain?” he inquired softly, the New Jersey accent was unmistakable, and Walker smiled despite the fact he felt awful.

“Captain Joseph Walker U.S Air force reporting, sir.” He said lifting his hand in a slow salute.

The colonel nodded, “Colonel Desmond Maguire, 8^th army. I am the Allied camp commander.” He relaxed a little, but lost none of his strong bearing, “How were you taken Captain?”

Walker took a drink from his cup and set it down on the edge of the table, “I was shot down over the English Channel on…” he struggled to remember, “April fifth.”

Maguire exchanged a glance with the doctor, “That was nearly a month ago Captain.” Maguire said deliberately slowly.

“I was picked up by a German U-boat,” He sighed again, remembering the long weeks in the cramped conditions, “U-431, a KorvettenKapitan Vogel. We ran the straights of Gibraltar to enter the Mediterranean…” He shrugged, “I was hand cuffed to a bunk…”

“Take your time, sir.” The doctor said sitting down on a small stool and giving him a concerned look, “did they sink any ships?”

Walker nodded, “yes, I don’t know what they sank, but they attacked something. They were very happy about it.”

Maguire thoughtfully tapped his chin, “That must have been the HMS Bulldog the BBC mentioned two weeks ago,” the other British Lieutenant nodded as he pulled out a small notebook and made a series of notes in it. Maguire looked back at Walker, “Do you remember anything else Captain?”

Walker shook his head, searching back through his memories of the journey, “Nothing except when I arrived here, we were met by a German Colonel on the wharf.”

“Obersturmführer Riechsmaan.” Maguire surmised as he shifted in his seat, “He is the Commandant of this POW Camp you will see more of him.”

A name to the face, Walker nodded as he continued, “I saw a couple of U-boats in port, as well as an Italian destroyer.”

“Did you see the German flying boat?” the other British Lieutenant asked looking up from his notebook, a light suddenly shining in his eyes. Hope was a valuable commodity in a prison camp, not to be traded upon lightly.

Walker nodded, “Yes it was tied up to the wharf under guard.”

“How many?” the lieutenant pressed, but Maguire held up a hand to stem the flow of questions.

“We should let the Captain get cleaned up and give him a chance to rest.” He stood, “Doctor Appleby I’m leaving the Captain in your care, see that he gets settled and familiarize him with the camp.” He motioned for the other Lieutenant to join him, and the two officers marched from the barracks.

As the door rattled shut Lieutenant Appleby smiled, “Good to meet you sir,” He extended his hand a warm smile on his face, “Welcome to Stalag Tiran or what ever the SS call it this week. Do you want to sleep first or get a shower?”

The smile on Walker’s face was answer enough. And he felt more human after he had a chance to shower and shave. One of the younger enlisted men, a British Sailor relieved him of his filthy uniform, and he walked around the camp in a borrowed pair of pants that was a size too large for him and a white Rangoon style shirt, wrong colour but it was a decent fit. It would have to do while his own were laundered. After he had transferred his insignia he followed behind Lt. Appleby as the Doctor showed him around the small camp compound.

The “Camp” if it could even be called that, held about two hundred POW’s, mostly British captured during the early part of the Greek Campaign. The Americans had been taken during the North African Campaign and had originally been imprisoned near Tripoli. But when America had joined the war and the Allies had forced Rommel’s forces back from El Alamein they had been loaded onto a ship bound for Europe, and for some reason had been diverted to Tiran.

“It’s strange.” Lt. Appleby was saying as they walked around the inner courtyard, “I’ve been a prisoner since nineteen forty one, most of the American’s since nineteen forty two, you’re the first new prisoner brought in to this camp since we arrived here.”

The two climbed up a broad set of stone steps to the walls of the inner compound, Appleby nodding to the massive outer walls a tier below them. “That’s the camp boundary, we have work teams in the outer area, all enlisted men.” He walked a bit further, pointing to the towers on the outer most walls, “Guard towers manned by SS guards. From what we can figure out the SS pretty much run this fortress, but the Kriegesmarine are in over all command of Tiran.”

Walker rested on the stonewalls and looked down on the well protected walls of the island citadel, “So we’re in a camp inside a fortress on an island. Our chances for escape are pretty much the same as Alcatraz.”

Appleby smiled, “Yeah except if you get out of Alcatraz you at least knew what direction to swim in. As near as we can tell we’re somewhere in the Adriatic Sea.” The doctor shrugged, “Colonel Maguire believes we are somewhere off the Dalmatian Coast, but no one really knows for sure.”

The stood quietly for a while staring over the walls at the sea rolling peacefully towards the horizon. This was where he was to sit out the war, on an island in the middle of nowhere. The sun glittered off of the water, tingeing it golden in the light of early evening. It would have been a beautiful place to visit in peace time, and if it weren’t for the SS guards patrolling the lower walls with their Alsatians, or the ever present Nazi swastika flying from the battlements above them it could have been mistaken for peace time.

“Look that German SS Officer you met on the shore, you need to be wary of him,” Lt. Appleby said after a moment, “Obersturmführer Riechsmaan,” he said the name with a certain amount of vehemence in his voice. “He is the commander of the SS forces in Tiran.” He shook his head, “Vicious son of a bitch, likes to parade around as if he runs Tiran himself.” He smiled, “He tried to insist that Colonel Maguire salute him when he first arrived on the island. But Maguire outranks him and refuses. They locked him in Solitary for a month for that one, it would have been longer but the Kriegesmarine Commander heard of it and stepped in personally.”

Walker nodded, “I got that impression from him when I landed.” He stopped and turned back to look down on the camp sitting in the shadow of the large keep, “What about that other Lieutenant with Maguire?”

“John?” Appleby inquired, “He’s an SAS officer, one of Monty’s bunch that gave the Italian’s so much trouble.”

“Commando huh?” Walker asked as he watched the Lieutenant issue some orders to a group of enlisted men that were lounging in the lee of one of the barracks buildings. He walked like a British officer, a dignified confidence that was almost arrogant. But if he was SAS it was a deserved arrogance.

“Yeah, he is also the man in charge of our escape committee, he’s got a few ideas on how to do it, and if anyone can pull of a miracle and escape this place he can.”

Walker nodded as he sat down on the edge of the wall, letting his feet dangle over the edge above the camp compound, grateful that he still had his crushed cap again to keep the sun out of his eyes. He was going to be spending a long time in that place, their own corner tucked away from the war. He smiled bitterly; at least it wasn’t a U-boat.