Camp 30 by Eric Walters Page A

that you have—possibly from the newsreels. With Captain Kretschmer at its helm, it sank more Allied ships than any other German submarine. They call him the Wolf of the North Atlantic. He was personally decorated by Hitler on two occasions and is reported to be his favourite commander.”
    â€œBut he seems so nice,” I said.
    â€œHe is very nice. An officer and a gentleman.”
    â€œBut he’s a Nazi!” Jack protested.
    â€œPlease,” Colonel Armstrong hissed. “We try not to use such terms … especially while we are sitting among more than six hundred German prisoners.”
    â€œSorry,” Jack said.
    â€œIn fact there are no Nazis housed in this compound.”
    That was what the old man in the store had told us, but I was still having trouble believing it.
    â€œThese are all military men, many of them career soldiers. They battled in the name of their country. They fought with integrity and honour. Many have, in private conversations, also voiced their disagreement with the tactics of the Nazi party and are offended by the actions of those in charge.” He paused. “Of course, those things are said only in private and are not to be repeated.Almost all have family remaining in Germany. To speak out against Hitler, or even hint at disagreement, would mean the death of those family members.”
    â€œHow awful,” my mother said.
    â€œThe most fanatic Nazis, members of the S.S., kill without thought. Old people, women, even children.”
    â€œIt’s hard to believe that there are people like that in this world,” my mother said.
    Jack looked over at me. Neither of us had any trouble believing it.
    â€œEnough of this talk,” Colonel Armstrong said. “Let’s enjoy our lunch. Today it’s pork roast, with gravy, potatoes and cabbage. Their cooks are very good, and I’m sure everybody will find the food to their liking.”
    â€œCould I ask you a question?” Jack said.
    â€œGo on,” Colonel Armstrong replied.
    â€œI was just wondering about everything … everything here. It’s all so fancy. It just seems like they have nothing but the best. And they’re our prisoners.”
    â€œIt does seem a little odd,” Colonel Armstrong agreed. “I wouldn’t imagine that either of you boys—perhaps even your mother—is familiar with a document called the Geneva Convention.”
    The old shopkeeper had mentioned that too.
    â€œI’ve heard of it,” Jack said, “but I’m not really sure what it is.”
    Both my mother and I shook our heads.
    â€œIt’s an agreement between the countries of the world governing how captured soldiers are to be treated.”
    â€œAnd they’re supposed to be treated like this?” Jack asked in amazement.
    â€œThey are to be properly housed, fed, given medical attention, allowed contact with family through mail, interviewed by the Red Cross and not subjected to physical punishment or torture.”
    â€œAnd the Nazis agree to all this too?” Jack asked. “Are our prisoners in Germany treated like this?”
    â€œNot up to these standards,” Colonel Armstrong said, “but that is because we hold higher standards. We are fighting a war to uphold the principles of integrity, democracy, fairness and the rights of the individual. It would be hypocritical of us not to treat their prisoners in a manner we believe to be fair and just.”
    â€œI guess that makes sense,” Jack agreed.
    â€œAnd by treating their prisoners well, we hope to persuade them to make attempts at fair treatment for our men who have been captured.”
    I thought about our father once more—his being captured or killed was a fear we lived with constantly. We waited for his letters confirming his safety the way Captain Kretschmer and the prisoners here waited for mail from their loved ones. I wanted to go straight home and write to our