“Wilhelm von Boch”. At last, it was spoken.

The two men stood regarding each other. Captain Loren let his glass down on the table next to an empty bottle.

“I need you, Eugene.”

“I know, Nick. That’s why I came here.” Silence filed the room between the two men. “Is it bad?”

“I have something to show you.” Pierce stood, drink in one hand, elbow leaning on a countertop for the second time in one day. “If only I could lean on this table and hold onto this drink forever”, he thought.

Captain Loren opened the door to the office and gestured outward. “This way, Lieutenant. I have something to show you.”

§

§

The black bird hopped along the top row of barbed wire separating the prisoners of Camp Stark from their SS comrades in the stockades. A thin black tube of metal hung from a small ball-bearing chain clamped in his beak and swung back and forth with each skip. On his back, a carefully painted “PW” shimmered in the light against his black and shining feathers.

For two years now, Jacob the crow counted out his days among the other prisoners of Camp Stark. Lost in a blizzard, he slammed against the one clear window of Barracks One, hoping the dim light inside was a beacon of warmth. His wing snapped and he went down, his head spinning with a bright light. As  he flew towards it, towards an eternal Spring, he was snatched back by loving hands, and nurtured back to life. His back was painted with the same lettering as his human comrades wore on their clothing. He was one of them. Prisoner of War. With wings able to support only the most fleeting flights, Jacob spent his time among his new friends and learned many things. The bird came to a stop stockade’s stoop and walked underneath the chair that rested outside and waited patiently.

The front door to the stockade opened inward and a wedge of light threw the nearest cell into deep contrast as the two men strode in. Inside the cell, three men stood. One rested on the only cot. The men were fetid, their uniforms stained with grime and torn from collar down. The place reeked of urine and feces. The stink of unclean men reached Pierce’s nostrils instantly. He fought back the will to vomit the whiskey, now sour and churning in his stomach. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness yielded and to an ambient light, Pierce regarded the four small cells. Three cells contained groups of four men each. In the fourth, a solitary man stood silent in an officer’s uniform. The soft cooing from the prisoners warbled through the stockade.