Chapter Seventy-Five

WARNING: This chapter contains violent and emotionally upsetting scenes

"So. This is our rebel." The lieutenant calmly folded his hands on his desk as they entered, staring coldly at the prisoner before him. It was a Wehrmacht camp, but the lieutenant wore the lightning bolt symbol of the SS on his collar and a skull and crossbones adorned the hat on his desk. His face was lit in flickering shadow, the dim light of a lantern casting an eerie glow around the nearly empty room that made up the poorly-equipped headquarters of the camp. Exhausted beyond the point of comprehension, Ronnie heard the words merely as hollow echoes, too tired and angry to care what they said any longer. 

"They tell me you organized the escape.” 

No answer.

“What is your name, prisoner?"

Somehow the quiet, placid tones of the officer, a sharp contrast to the screams of the corporal, were ultimately more terrifying. But having faced the barrel of a gun only moments ago without any way of defense, Ronnie felt as though he could take whatever came next.

"Lieutenant Stewart, Sir."

"A masterful job, this escape plan," the lieutenant continued, the tone of his carefully-modulated voice never varying by so much as one degree. "Excellent work. Do you not agree?"

Still no answer. Ronnie couldn't begin to imagine where on earth this seemingly pointless monologue would end up. Nor did he want to know.

"You helped fifty-three men get away. And yet you did not get out yourself. Why? Are you not afraid?" The lieutenant glanced down, calmly inspecting his fingernails as if he had all the time in the world. He brushed an imaginary wrinkle from the sleeve of his jacket and looked up slowly. "We could use men like you, Lieutenant Stewart. Calm. Quick-thinking. Putting the lives of your men before your own. Fearless in the face of death. A superior specimen, a perfect example of the Aryan race." He paused. “You do not answer me?” 

The lieutenant pushed his chair back to rise, narrowing his eyes. 

"You Americans are all so defiant," he snapped, his voice becoming sharply angry, his tone deadly. "Do you not realize I could end your life in mere moments?" 

Ronnie almost laughed, in spite of himself. The man somehow looked so much less intimidating when he was standing. As he stepped forward, the top of his head barely reached Ronnie's chin. At least this lieutenant could not easily hold a gun at his head.

"We do not tolerate men who think they can escape. I will make sure this never happens again. We will teach you a lesson you will never forget."

Ronnie followed the man with his eyes as he paced across the office. For one moment, caught in the haze of complete and near-giddy exhaustion, he contemplated the wild possibility of escape. He could rush the lieutenant and tackle him, grab a gun, jump out the window… Briefly and in vain, he strained at his bonds, flexing his wrists against the tight ropes. The officer caught the slight movement and laughed menacingly.

"American dog," he hissed. "We will force you to your knees. And then see if we will listen to your pleas for mercy." Turning to the guards, he spoke to them sharply in German and they grinned at each other in an almost evil kind of anticipation.

"We will make sure you no longer can run away, jah?" 

A sharp pain suddenly slammed against the side of Ronnie’s face and he reeled backwards, falling heavily against the wall. Again a hard fist connected with his jaw, before he could gather his wits enough to realize what was happening. His glasses fell, shattering on the floor. He was shoved forward, his knees buckling as they hit him across the back of his legs with a rifle. A boot was pressed against his back, holding him down as he struggled to rise. 

"You cannot fight now," the guards jeered. They stomped on his bound hands, grinding his fingers into the floor with the heels of their boots. He could hear someone screaming and realized it was his own voice. He clenched his teeth, nearly biting through his tongue as he tried to force himself into silence. 

All through the long years of the war, he had fought because he knew it was something he had to do. He hated war, he hated fighting. But he had been fighting for others and he knew it was his duty… a just and righteous cause. But now… for the first time… he wanted to fight. To fight for himself. Wanted to return blow for blow… to beat them as hard as he knew they were going to beat him. But he was helpless. And he knew that resistance would only earn him a worse punishment. Yet lying there and being beaten like a dog was the most agonizing feeling he had ever known. 

“Why did you do it, Amerikanisch?” The voices seemed to come at him from all directions, echoing and re-echoing in a black and red world of pain. “Why did you do it? Why did you dare to fight us?” One of the guards was gripping his collar, shaking him violently. His head was forced back, his neck feeling as if it was going to snap. Again, an answer was demanded.

“Because…” Ronnie gasped out, choking on the blood in his mouth. “Because it… was right…” his answer earned him a savage blow to the face and the guard slammed his head onto the floor.

They kicked him again and again, raining heavy blows on his head, his back, his chest, with their boots. They dragged him to his feet, only to knock him down again, using their rifles as clubs. He writhed on the ground, twisting his body in effort to protect himself but they only kicked harder. He couldn’t even lift his arms to cover his face. 

Greater love hath no man than this…

He could feel his ribs cracking beneath their heavy feet and gathered all of his strength to keep from crying out in agony. Blood was streaming down his face from a gash in his forehead, blinding his eyes. They laughed wildly, drunken with hatred and violence, crazed with bloodlust. They seemed to forget it was a human being beneath their feet… merely an animal to be crushed and trampled. But the Nazis never did have any regard for human life.

…That a man lay down his life for his friends…

The pain began to dull and the entire world seemed to be tipping and reeling around him drunkenly. It was with a sort of vague, half-recognizable relief that he realized he was losing consciousness. He didn't fight to stay awake. He almost hoped he was dying. Blackness and silence were welcome peace.