“Click”

“Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister.” The news photographer bowed graciously as he fumbled with his camera and walked away towards the other guests. The friend watched the newsman as he moved among the other guests, then turned back to Churchill. “The conference will begin, as planned, in 45 minutes, sir.”

As he spoke, a hotel clerk approached the Prime Minister and whispered in his ear.

“I’m not going to the conference, Stephenson.”

“You’re not?” Stephenson asked, puzzled.

A breeze drifted between the men and Stephenson stood silent. The clerk approached the Prime Minister and again whispered into his ear.  Churchill nodded and turned to Stephenson.

“My friend, you and I both know there are far greater challenges awaiting us that the trifles of men and money.” He turned back to his painting. “I have an appointment with a doctor, no less. Come along, Sir William, we’re going to Stark”

Camp Stark’s sole physician, Lieutenant J. Walter Parish, was young and eager when he began his post. Upon arrival at Stark, the Germans brought forward a physician of their own, Julius Breuer. Together, the two men cared for the prisoners and forged a professional friendship that benefited the prisoners, the guards and the personnel of Camp Stark. On occasion, Breuer was even brought off site to care for the sick of the town, primarily a logging work camp, and Weary of the monotonous labor in the woods, other prisoners similarly stepped forward to offer their skills and found themselves occupied with clerical, mechanical, electrical, and even plumbing duties, all skillfully carried out by men whore bore the harshly painted PW lettering across their trousers and shirts to distinguish themselves among the guards roaming the grounds and occasional civilians mucking about the camp. In short time, the German doctor was favored among the ranks and J. Walter Parish regretted his own cordial nature.