Free The Major's Daughter by J. P. Francis

German answered straightforwardly. Collie listened to his responses carefully, trying to pick up on any discrepancies in his account. She reported the German’s responses to her father faithfully. One by one the men came in, stood before her father, and reported the same story. They knew little; they had no idea where the man had gone. Each testified that the missing soldier had not confided in them. Her father treated them sternly and asked a rigorous series of questions to cross-check against previous answers, but it became apparent after the third man that they knew nothing of the escapee’s whereabouts. Collie surmised the facts of the escape required little plotting. The man had drifted away on the walk back to the camp. That was the essence of it. He had gone precisely as the men reached the larger group of men returning for the day. He had mixed in, found his opportunity, then wandered away. It suggested nothing systemic. Nonetheless, it would have to be punished.
    The last interviewee was August Wahrlich. He spoke English—he often served to translate English into German around the camp—and her father told her she could go back to the outer office. She passed close to the young German, measuring herself against him. She came to his shoulder.
    She kept her head down and pretended to be busy at her desk, but her attention remained locked on the voices coming from her father’s office. When Lieutenant Peters asked her a question, she answered it quickly, wanting silence so that she could hear August’s voice through the walls. His English was only fair, she realized. It made her smile down at her paperwork to hear him say,
“Alles hangt vorl Kommandanton ab
,” then translate it into English,
Everything depends on the commandant
.
    At last she heard him dismissed. The door opened and he stepped out.
    â€œGood morning,” he said in English.
    Collie realized he greeted them both. The guard from her father’s office stood beside him. Collie could not stop blushing. She kept her eyes on her paperwork, but gradually she grew aware that he remained in front of her desk. When she glanced up, he handed her a piece of paper.
    â€œIt is a translation of a poem,” he said, the accents on his English phrasing somewhat blocky. “Ludwig Uhland. I remembered it from my school days. Do you like poetry?”
    â€œYes,” she said. “I do.”
    â€œYour father said I could give this to you. I thought you might like it and perhaps help me with my translation to English.”
    He extended the paper farther. She took it and felt herself trembling.
    â€œThank you,” she said. “I’m sure I will enjoy it.”
    â€œThe translation was difficult and it is not very good, I’m afraid. I have the other German put there.”
    â€œThe original?”
    â€œYes,” he said.
    Then the guard told August to step out. August smiled, and she smiled in return. She kept the poem folded and put it to one side, the paper nearly burning her skin when she touched it.
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    He did not like to do it, but Major Brennan issued the order to put the Germans on bread and water. It was a shotgun approach, one he doubted would be particularly effective, but he felt helpless in the face of the escape. The prisoners would not respect weakness, nor would they take the reduction in rations lightly. He was in a bind; they all were. Little had been gained by the interviews of the work party. A tall, thin German by the name of William Zimmerman had made good his escape. That was the long and short of it. From all accounts, he was an unlikely candidate for escape. He had always followed orders willingly, had labored with a good heart in the initial phases of the work, and had caused no trouble that anyone could point to. He had trusted no one with his plans, from what Major Brennan could determine, nor had he been part of any larger conspiracy. His