Camp 30 by Eric Walters Page B

dad.
    â€œThere is also one other motive for the conditions we provide here,” Colonel Armstrong said quietly. “By providing for their needs, we hope to discourage these men from making any serious effort to escape. We hope they will be reasonably content to sit out the war here.”
    â€œBut people do try to escape,” I said. “We heard about the laundry truck.”
    â€œIs there anything you two haven’t heard about?” He paused. “Escape attempts are inevitable. It is the duty of all prisoners of war to attempt to escape. Thus far no one has been successful. Yet, as sure as I’m sitting here, some prisoners will continue to try to fulfil their duty. And I will fulfil my duty by stopping them.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    â€œ DO YOU HEAR the phone?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t hear anything except you talking,” my brother said.
    We were lying on the grass in our new backyard, in the shade of a big maple tree. We’d been goofing off all day— Mom was at work, we’d left our paper route back in Whitby, and school wasn’t due to start for a few weeks.
    â€œThere it is again,” I said. “Don’t you hear it?”
    â€œI hear it. It’s probably coming from somebody else’s house.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” I said, sitting up and turning my head to better capture the sound.
    â€œWho’d be calling us?” Jack asked. “Who even knows our phone number?”
    â€œCould be a wrong number,” I suggested.
    â€œAnd if it’s a wrong number, why would I want to answer it?”
    â€œMaybe it’s Mom,” I said.
    â€œWhy would Mom be calling?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œOnly one way to find out. You go and answer it because I’m not moving. And you’d better hurry or whoever it is will hang up.”
    I jumped to my feet, ran across the lawn and bounded in through the back door. The phone rang again—no doubt now it was ours. I raced across the kitchen and grabbed it mid-ring.
    â€œHello!” I practically yelled.
    â€œIs that you, George?”
    It was Mom. “It’s me.”
    â€œYou sound all out of breath.”
    â€œI am,” I puffed. “I ran in from the backyard …”
    â€œI need you and your brother to do something.”
    â€œSure,” I said, although now I felt like kicking myself for answering the phone in the first place. What chore was she going to give me? We were pretty bored, but lying on the grass beat the heck out of having to cut it.
    â€œI need you and your brother to go down to Main Street, to the post office.”
    â€œIs there something there from Dad?” I asked hopefully.
    â€œNot that I know. I need you to bring some mail up to the camp. We’ll call to give authorization for you to pick it up. Can you do that?”
    â€œOf course. We can take our bikes.”
    â€œGood. And you’d better bring along your old newspaper bags. Do you know where they are?”
    â€œI’m pretty sure. But why do we need them?”
    â€œYou’re going to be getting all the mail for the prisoners.”
    â€œYou want us to do that?” It wasn’t the kind of chore I’d been expecting.
    â€œWe need you to. The person who was supposed to bring it up called in sick, and then one thing led to another and the mail was never picked up. It has to be up here as soon as possible, so I need you to hurry.”
    â€œWe’ll get there on the double.”
    â€œCome straight to my office—and remember, the sooner the better!”
    We pedalled along the dirt road out of town as quickly as we could, weighed down with our bags. They were stuffed full with letters and packages, and the corners of some of the boxes were poking into my side. A couple of letters fluttered out of my bag and fell to the ground as we rode. I saw them out of the corner of my eye and skidded to a stop to