Camp 30 by Eric Walters Read Free Book Online

guards—one of them had to be sixty if he was a day—saluted smartly, and Colonel Armstrong returned the salutes. The guards all wore the same olive-green uniform, with a fierce-looking lion patch on the shoulder.
    â€œAs you can see, there are two fences, with a gap of fifteen feet between them. Both fences are twelve feet high and are topped by a rather nasty array of both barbed wire and razor wire,” Colonel Armstrong said. “Along the outer fence at intervals of four yards are electric lights capable of turning night into day at the flick of a switch.”
    As the first gate closed behind us, the second began to open. The three others started into the yard, but I hesitated. Was this really wise?
    Colonel Armstrong looked back. “Nothing to fear, lad,” he said, and I hurried after them.
    â€œAs we travel, we are being observed from the guard towers. Each tower is twenty-two feet high and is manned by three guards equipped with rifles. There is not a spot within the fourteen-acre compound that is not visible from one of the nine towers.”
    That was reassuring, until I remembered that some of those guards were so old that they probably couldn’t see very far anyway, and I didn’t even want to think about how well they could shoot.
    Colonel Armstrong turned around to face the guards. “Aren’t you gentlemen forgetting something?” he demanded.
    Nobody answered.
    â€œNo one asked us to sign in,” Colonel Armstrong said firmly.
    â€œOh, yeah, sorry, sir,” one of the guards stammered. He opened up a wooden box and pulled out a large leather book. “I’ll mark the four of you in,” he said.
    The colonel started walking again, and we followed. “New regulation I’ve instituted to keep track of visitors in and out of the compound. The guards seem to have trouble remembering. I’m afraid it’s hard to teach old dogs new tricks.”
    â€œI can’t believe how old some of them are,” Jack said.
    â€œIt’s a reality of war that the younger men are on the front lines,” Colonel Armstrong explained.
    â€œLike our father,” Jack said.
    â€œExactly. I have some fine men here, though. A bit long in the tooth, but many of them were good soldiers in their time.”
    â€œThe grounds are very well maintained,” my mother said, changing the subject. “The flowers are just lovely!”
    â€œYes, they are. The prisoners have established a horticultural club.”
    â€œA what?” I asked.
    â€œA gardening club. They also have a theatre company, book club, poetry reading group, painting classes, a bird-watching club, a newspaper, an orchestra—”
    â€œAn orchestra?” my mother asked.
    â€œYes. Forty-eight pieces. They mainly play the classics, but the conductor has admitted a fondness for Glenn Miller and they’ve started playing some big band and swing standards. There are also many sporting events.”
    â€œLike soccer,” Jack said.
    â€œWe saw them playing the other day,” I added.
    â€œAnd just what were you two doing up here the other day?” Colonel Armstrong asked.
    â€œI sent them to see how long it would take to walk here,” our mother explained.
    â€œBut we hung around for a while because we were curious,” Jack confessed.
    â€œCuriosity isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Colonel Armstrong said. “Although I remember something my mother always used to say: ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’”
    Â As we continued along the path, two soldiers—two prisoners —came toward us. They walked crisply, the heels of their shiny boots clicking against the concrete walkway. I felt scared. I slipped back slightly so that I was partially shielded and protected by Colonel Armstrong. I looked anxiously around for the nearest guard tower, but didn’t see any guards peering out from it.
    As the distance closed to a few feet, the