For Malice and Mercy by Gary W. Toyn

Author:Gary W. Toyn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction, spy stories, German-American-Fiction
Publisher: American Legacy Media
Published: 2021-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Later that evening, a guard entered Hank’s cell, bearing some soiled prisoner clothing.

“Undress,” the guard demanded. “You must wear this instead.”

He handed Hank a large pair of coveralls, stained and reeking of human sweat; he assumed it hadn’t been washed recently, or ever, for that matter.

“We must search your clothes for items you are not allowed to have,” the guard said. “After, you come vit me to toilet.”

Hank lingered while he stripped out of his jumpsuit, his bomber jacket, and his cherished battery-heated thermal underwear. The cold bit at his skin. He shuddered as he lifted the coveralls to his shoulders and buttoned them.

“Now, you must do toilet business; you not go back before tomorrow.”

Another guard escorted Hank to a room with several toilets and a washbasin. Hank finished his business and washed his hands, relieved for the water streaming from the faucet. He bent down to drink the water.

“Nein. Nicht trink wasser. Nicht!”

The guard lunged toward Hank and pushed him away from the flowing water, but Hank had gotten his fill. Water dripped from Hank’s chin as the guard shoved him back to his cell.

He fell asleep again.

A few hours later, Hank awoke to his door opening. A man stood just outside, a Red Cross armband crimson against his brown clothes. He held a clipboard and introduced himself in broken English.

“You avake?” he asked.

“Not quite,” Hank said. “What time is it?”

“Oh, that vill not matter,” he said. “I am Herr Janneman. I am vit de International Red Cross. Ve complete ze form so your family knows you here.”

He handed Hank the clipboard and a pencil. The form, titled “Arrival Report,” bore the markings of the International Red Cross in Geneva, Switzerland. The form asked for information about his squadron, group, and command. It also asked for details about the date he was shot down and the names of his crew members. The Army had warned them about this tactic.

Hank was in no frame of mind to put up with the ploy. “I will only complete my name, rank, and serial number. That’s it. No more.”

“Oh. Thees only for the Red Cross. Ve not share vit German officials.”

“Why do you need to know the names of my crew members or my tail number?”

“It is important to identify you,” he mumbled.

“You have my serial number; that’s all they need to identify me,” Hank snapped back.

Hank scribbled his name, rank, and serial number on the form, in handwriting his fifth-grade penmanship teacher would have scowled upon. “There you go.” He tossed the paper at the man.

“Thees is no good,” the man said, kneeling down next to Hank’s bed. “Your letters undt parcels from home cannot find you. Your family vill tink you are dead. Is that vat you vant?”

“I’ll take my chances.” Hank rolled over, turning his back to the man.

“Oh, I am sorry for you. You not understant. Thees important for you. Vat is wrong vit you?”

The pestering and insistence made Hank scowl, and he realized how cranky and tired he was.

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