Prisoners of War by Steve Yarbrough Read Free Book Online Page B

that’s between you and the army.” He checked Dan’s name off. “Best, T.... Feder, D. . . . Fentzel, W....”
    L.C. pulled the sacks down off the trailer, which was standing on the turnrow. The Germans waited together in a loose group, not saying a word. Every now and then they’d glance at the far end of the field, as if trying to estimate the distance from turnrow to turnrow.
    One of them was taller than all the rest by several inches, but his ears were so tiny, they looked like they belonged on a six-year-old. His hollowed-out cheeks might’ve made him appear haunted if he hadn’t been teetering on the verge of laughter since the moment he walked through the gates. The only other one who stood out in any way was a blond guy who would’ve been handsome but for the deep purple stain covering the right side of his neck and most of his cheek.
    “You wear the sack like this,” Dan said, feeling foolish because the sergeant had told him that no one in the detachment spoke English. He looped the strap over his head, allowing it to rest on his shoulder. “The sack drags along behind you.” He took a few steps to demonstrate, then turned and nodded at L.C., who began distributing the sacks.
    All of the prisoners put them on correctly except the tall one with little ears, who worked the loop down around his waist.
    Dan tapped himself on the shoulder. “Like this.”
    Chuckling silently, the tall prisoner just shook his head.
    “All right,” Dan said, “suit yourself.”
    He gripped a lock of cotton, pulled it loose, transferred it to his left hand and dropped it in his sack even as his right hand reached for another boll. “You use both hands, like that,” he said. “You need to drop the cotton in the sack without looking back. Otherwise, it’ll take you all day to pick a row, and you’ll get a bad crick in your neck, too.” He held his right hand up so they could see he’d bound his fingertips with white adhesive tape. “The burrs’ll tear your fingers and make ’em bleed unless you tape ’em. I got a roll here y’all can use. And one other thing: your back’ll hurt like the devil from all the stooping.”
    L.C. laughed. “Shit, Dan,” he said. “If it was me, I believe I’d try to tell ’em something positive.”
    “Yeah?” Dan said. He looked at the Germans, then gestured at the sky. “Well, sometimes it rains. And when it does, y’all can stay at the prison.”
    They set out into the field, Dan and L.C. flanked on either side by four of the POWs. The guy with the stain on his face was trying to pull the bolls off and then separate the cotton from them, and he kept getting stuck. Once, when he pricked himself badly, he put his finger in his mouth to suck it, and the prisoner with the funny ears laughed and said something in German that made a couple of the others laugh, too.
    “That cat back yonder looks like he’s having a hard time,” L.C. said.
    Dropping his sack, Dan stepped across a couple rows and walked back to where the man’d fallen behind. “Look,” he said. He pulled a boll loose and showed it to the German. “This part of it, the stem? It’s still green. That’s why it’s sticking you. See?
Green.
I don’t know what that word is in your language.”
    The German shaded his eyes and looked ahead toward the others; then he stepped closer.
“Grün,”
he whispered.
    Taken aback, Dan said, “What?”
    The prisoner smiled. Sweat was streaming down his discolored face and onto his neck, soaking the front of his shirt. Though Dan knew it was silly, he looked a little more closely, to see if the liquid produced by the man’s pores might not be purple, too.
    “Grün,”
the prisoner whispered again. “Almost same word in your language and their.”

TEN

    KIMBALL HAD drawn his first breath somewhere in California, and he seemed to believe this conferred a mark of distinction—for which, from time to time, he felt the need to offer an apology. “Dad and I were down in L.A.