The bird was passed from man to man until it rested in Boch’s knobby hands. He softly pulled the necklace from the bird and gently rest him down on the floorboards. It hobbled towards a corner of the stockade, found the rat hole, and was gone. Boch unfurled the small piece of paper from the black metal tube and began to read. In an instant he spoke. The cooing stopped and the men stood at attention as best they could. Most wobbled.  A few were still incapacitated and lay prone on the cots. “The tunnel is ready. Quickly, men. You won’t last long.”

“For the Fatherland,” they whispered.

Inside Barracks One, Soldat Hellmuth Müller stood guard as several of the prisoners pulled the corner bunk aside and pulled at the floorboards. One went in, followed closely by another. In a few moments they had reached the stockade and began to rap gently on the boards. In another few, they were on their way back,  followed by their SS kin.

“Mein Gott, you stink, whispered the first man.”

“He’s got gangrene.” Hissed the second.

“Not time.” The first SS man couched and hacked. His voice now masked with phlegm. Behind him, the others followed. A similar muffled ripple of clogged throats filled the tunnel. Shuffling men dragged some of their comrades behind them and whispered among themselves.