Arthur, or “Art", as he was known by his buddies, also was a resident of this P.O.W. camp. But whereas Karl was a prisoner, Art was a guard, Art too was not quiet nineteen years old, and a person in a position to see would have at once noted the similiarity in the backgrounds of the two men.

Had it not been for a world war these two boys could easily have been good friends. There would have been much they could have given and shared with each other.

Neither Karl nor Art had ever had time to do much deep thinking.

Each was aware that the other was in this camp, both of them considered, in a way, by their comrades, as babies. Each had been careful to observe the actions of the other, and each of them had been careful to give no outward sign of this activity.

Much could be said about what each man thought to himself, but there are secrets that men do not share with each other. Suffice it that both of these men for the first time in their lives realized that wearing a uniform of a certain colour and design, or being born in a certain place does not make much difference. One guy is pretty much the same as the next. Some people you like, some people you don't like, but not because of what someone else tells you.

Sergeant Gordon was Art's squad leader. The Sergeant hated all Germans. He had lost a son and brother in this war. The Sergeant was well filled with hate all the way to the top of his head. Perhaps most of all he hated to be on guard duty in a P.O.W. camp, for there he was forbidden to kill; had the commanding officer of the camp been aware of the Sergeant's feelings, for more than one reason he would have arranged a transfer.

The prisoners were lined up waiting to be fed. Art stood by the single file of men lined up in front of the mess building, a wooden club in his hand and no other weapon near. Regulations forbade that guards carry guns inside the enclosure since there was always the chance of prisoners gaining possession.

Sergeant Gordon came along checking the line, looking at each prisoner as he passed, his insinuated hate obvious to all who could see his face. He stopped beside Art and asked "No one givin' you any trouble are they kid?" and he needlessly added, "I can take care of the swine." Art shuddered as he felt the cruelness of the Sergeant's voice. Art too had been at the "front", had killed, and had seen those at his elbow killed, people that he knew well. But, these were things that Art knew and sometimes thought about, and never spoke about to anyone.

It was a very hot day. The humidity was uncommonly heavy and the temperature was well over a hundred.

Karl was in the chow line as it passed Sergeant Gordon and Art at this instant. Because of the heat, and youth of himself, even though it was against regulations Karl had removed his shirt.

As soon as he saw this, Sergeant Gordon began screaming at Karl. He ranted and he raved and he became unreasonable, spitting out a mouthful of vile words and senseless questions, all the time forgetting that his prisoner could not understand English.

Karl was at a complete loss to understand what was going on. The only thing he knew for certain was that is was himself that the American screamed at.

Every muscle in his young body tensed.

Picture him there in the sun, tensed, proud, covered with a thin film of sweat to his waist, scared half to death by the rampaging American Sergeant, the bright rays of the hot sun bouncing off his flesh, the fear sneaking out from him; not

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