Amerikan Eagle

Sam was in his bunk, breathing in the stench, listening to the wheezing and snoring from his bunkmates. Every now and then somebody would crying out in a dream in a foreign language. His shoes were off and tied about his neck—earlier Otto had warned him, “Thieves everywhere, so keep your shoes close”—and he stared up into the shadows.

At last he knew the secrets of the camps. Refugee Jews from Europe were being transported to America to work in quarries, mines, and forests. Slave labor, long hours, long days, and all they got was poor food—supper had been oatmeal and chunks of stale bread—and a place to sleep. They had all volunteered to come here.

Petr Wowenstein had escaped from a research facility in New Mexico and had been murdered in Portsmouth.

But why?

Sam rolled into his pillow, his shoes striking the side of his face, trying to get comfortable and failing.

Did it matter anymore?

Petr Wowenstein had escaped from a camp and ended up in Sam’s hometown.

Investigating his murder had brought Sam to the same kind of camp. But as a prisoner, not an investigator.

* * *

He woke with a start, hitting his head on the overhead roof frame, the shoes nearly strangling him. Men were shouting, banging gongs, yelling, “Out! Out! Raus! Raus! Everybody out! Jeder heraus!”

He dropped out of his bunk, pulled his shoes off his neck, and struggled to put them on his swollen feet. The bunkhouse was still unlit, so he bumped into his bunkmates as he moved outside into the assembly area. The morning air was frigid and he started shivering, rubbing at his arms. He could not believe what he saw. Long’s Legionnaires were there, overseeing the rows of prisoners, but they had been joined by German soldiers… No, not soldiers. Their uniforms were black, with polished black boots, caps with skull symbols in the center. SS. German SS were there, helping the Legionnaires, laughing and joking, carrying short whips.

“Bunkhouse Six, Bunkhouse Six, at attention!” yelled a tall, thin Legionnaire who was joined by an SS trooper who yelled out, “Bunkhouse Sechs, Bunkhouse Sechs, an der Aufmerksamkeit!”

The Legionnaire counted out the number of prisoners before him, making notes, and Sam kept on shivering, thinking, This can’t be real, cannot be true, German SS and Long’s Legionnaires, stormtroopers from each side of the Atlantic, cooperating and working together as one in the mountains of Vermont. There had been a few news reports of Long’s Legionnaires traveling to Germany to visit their compatriots, but never had there been mention of the reverse. It was like some nightmare that his upstairs neighbor would be writing for one of those fantasy magazines.

The Legionnaire yelled something to a camp official, and then Sam joined his bunkmates as they marched out to the quarries, flanked by Long’s Legionnaires and SS stormtroopers.

* * *

His job was simple. By an area where cutting tools and drills made incisions into the marble wall, he had a shovel to scoop up marble chips that were processed later for some other use. The stone reared above him for scores of feet, and other prisoners scrambled up and down scaffolding, carrying tools. Only a few Legionnaires and SS men watched, content to sit in wooden chairs and gossip among themselves. Sam’s hands quickly blistered as he shoveled marble chips into open wooden wagons. Once during the morning, he had a few words with Otto, who was carrying lengths of wood scaffolding.

Sam said, “You volunteered for this?”

The man laughed. “It is easier work than before, over there. The food, not good, but enough. And here, the guards are forbidden to shoot us unless we try to escape. We may be beaten here and there, but to live, we are living here better than in the camps in Germany and Poland. And you? Why are you here?”

Sam shoveled up some chips. “I’m a cop. From a city called Portsmouth. In New Hampshire. Came here investigating a murder back home.”

Otto said, “You should have stayed home, eh?”

Sam coughed, leaned on his shovel. “Maybe so. What about you?”

Otto’s face darkened. “Ach, we are the lucky ones. You see there are no women and children here, eh? Only we capable of work were allowed to leave. Our family members, left behind. For them, who knows how they are…”

The Jew scurried away. Sam picked up his shovel and went back to work.

* * *

Breakfast came after two hours of work, a soup wagon pulled by a tired horse, ribs showing, plodding along. Thick oatmeal, cold toast smeared with foul-tasting margarine, and a mug of weak coffee. It was filling but something Sam would have sneered at earlier.