Prisoners of War by Steve Yarbrough Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Yarbrough
Tags: Fiction, Historical
that drives Alvin’s rolling store?”
“Yes sir.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“He’ll help me get ’em started this morning.”
“I been watching that boy. He come by my place one day and laid down on that damn horn, and when I walked over and asked him what the hell he was doing, he didn’t show too much respect. Since then, I seen him tearing up and down the roads, throwing up rocks and dust, just batting it to beat all. Like to run me in the ditch one day. I got a good mind to report him to the Civil Defense.” He shook his head. “These Germans is the enemy all right, and if the army asked me to, I’d stand ten or twelve of ’em up against the barn and cut loose. But if they could speak English, I bet you wouldn’t have no trouble understanding what they was saying. Not like the niggers. Maybe
they
know what they mean when they open their mouth, but can’t nobody else figure it out.”
One of the guards unlocked the gates, and a sergeant Dan had seen downtown, eating a burger and reading the funny papers, stepped out holding a clipboard. “All right now,” he said, his voice loud and unmistakably northern. “We’ll be following the same procedure every morning. What I got here’s a list of all the contractors and the men assigned to each one. When I call off a contractor’s name, I’ll ask him to hold his hand up to identify himself. And don’t none of you local gentlemen worry, you’re not volunteering for hazardous duty or nothing like that.” He paused in case the line drew a laugh.
It didn’t. Dan had heard more than a few folks say they didn’t like having so many outsiders around—and it was clear they weren’t referring to the Germans.
“All right, then. Ain’t nobody got a sense of humor here this morning. But hell, this is serious business, right? Right. We got to get these Jerries out there picking old king cotton. And so we will, so we will. My first name on the list this fine morning’s Mr. Robert L. Brown, and I bet I know what the L stands for. Probably had an ancestor fit for the greatest in gray. Where’s Farmer Brown?”
Raising his hand, Bob Brown stepped forward.
In a low voice, Holder said, “Lock that damn Yankee in a room with one of them Krauts and his breakfast’d run the hundred down his leg.”
The sergeant pointed at Brown, then turned to the prisoners and began shouting names. “Abeken, J. . . . Daim, R. . . . Detten, A. . . . Lasker, G. . . .”
Dan watched the Germans stream through the gates. He’d always heard they were usually blond, but a lot of them had dark hair, and there were even a couple redheads. Few exhibited any memorable physical traits, and they were mostly of average height and average weight. Standing there, he had a hard time believing any of them would’ve been willing, much less eager, to kill him. It seemed impossible that he couldn’t have convinced them to let him live, if only because he was every bit as ordinary as they were.
Two men in each group carried five-gallon water cans, which they hoisted into the backs of the pickups. The other prisoners stood by silently while the farmers signed for them; then they climbed into the trucks and rode off. Most detachments were unaccompanied by guards.
“Daniel Timms,” the sergeant finally called. “Where’s Mr. Daniel J. Timms?”
Dan stepped forward, his hand in the air.
The sergeant looked him over. “Your father send you?”
Right then, for the first time that morning, Dan saw Marty. He was standing inside the fence, a rifle slung from his shoulder. The MP armband had slid down close to his elbow. Raising his right hand, he pointed an imaginary pistol at the sergeant’s back.
“My father’s dead,” Dan said. “I’ll be in charge of the group, but my uncle’ll be looking in on ’em, too.”
“How old are you, son?”
“Almost eighteen.”
“Seventeen, in other words.”
“Yes sir.”
“Yes sir.” The sergeant shook his head. “Well, I guess
“Yes sir.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“He’ll help me get ’em started this morning.”
“I been watching that boy. He come by my place one day and laid down on that damn horn, and when I walked over and asked him what the hell he was doing, he didn’t show too much respect. Since then, I seen him tearing up and down the roads, throwing up rocks and dust, just batting it to beat all. Like to run me in the ditch one day. I got a good mind to report him to the Civil Defense.” He shook his head. “These Germans is the enemy all right, and if the army asked me to, I’d stand ten or twelve of ’em up against the barn and cut loose. But if they could speak English, I bet you wouldn’t have no trouble understanding what they was saying. Not like the niggers. Maybe
they
know what they mean when they open their mouth, but can’t nobody else figure it out.”
One of the guards unlocked the gates, and a sergeant Dan had seen downtown, eating a burger and reading the funny papers, stepped out holding a clipboard. “All right now,” he said, his voice loud and unmistakably northern. “We’ll be following the same procedure every morning. What I got here’s a list of all the contractors and the men assigned to each one. When I call off a contractor’s name, I’ll ask him to hold his hand up to identify himself. And don’t none of you local gentlemen worry, you’re not volunteering for hazardous duty or nothing like that.” He paused in case the line drew a laugh.
It didn’t. Dan had heard more than a few folks say they didn’t like having so many outsiders around—and it was clear they weren’t referring to the Germans.
“All right, then. Ain’t nobody got a sense of humor here this morning. But hell, this is serious business, right? Right. We got to get these Jerries out there picking old king cotton. And so we will, so we will. My first name on the list this fine morning’s Mr. Robert L. Brown, and I bet I know what the L stands for. Probably had an ancestor fit for the greatest in gray. Where’s Farmer Brown?”
Raising his hand, Bob Brown stepped forward.
In a low voice, Holder said, “Lock that damn Yankee in a room with one of them Krauts and his breakfast’d run the hundred down his leg.”
The sergeant pointed at Brown, then turned to the prisoners and began shouting names. “Abeken, J. . . . Daim, R. . . . Detten, A. . . . Lasker, G. . . .”
Dan watched the Germans stream through the gates. He’d always heard they were usually blond, but a lot of them had dark hair, and there were even a couple redheads. Few exhibited any memorable physical traits, and they were mostly of average height and average weight. Standing there, he had a hard time believing any of them would’ve been willing, much less eager, to kill him. It seemed impossible that he couldn’t have convinced them to let him live, if only because he was every bit as ordinary as they were.
Two men in each group carried five-gallon water cans, which they hoisted into the backs of the pickups. The other prisoners stood by silently while the farmers signed for them; then they climbed into the trucks and rode off. Most detachments were unaccompanied by guards.
“Daniel Timms,” the sergeant finally called. “Where’s Mr. Daniel J. Timms?”
Dan stepped forward, his hand in the air.
The sergeant looked him over. “Your father send you?”
Right then, for the first time that morning, Dan saw Marty. He was standing inside the fence, a rifle slung from his shoulder. The MP armband had slid down close to his elbow. Raising his right hand, he pointed an imaginary pistol at the sergeant’s back.
“My father’s dead,” Dan said. “I’ll be in charge of the group, but my uncle’ll be looking in on ’em, too.”
“How old are you, son?”
“Almost eighteen.”
“Seventeen, in other words.”
“Yes sir.”
“Yes sir.” The sergeant shook his head. “Well, I guess