FTL is not possible, but Dr. Jones proceeded to offer great insight with the words, "I need not tell you, gentlemen, that the laws of war are the same for a civilized nation as for an uncivilized people. A people that treats its prisoners with cruelty certainly does not consider itself a civilized people, although they may have some political or tribal affiliation which makes their treatment of prisoners a convenient necessity. There is, of course, a world of difference between the brutalities of the German and Russian prisoner-of-war camps and the British treatment of prisoners in the past. But none of us can claim to be perfect." It was a brilliant, poignant and deeply ironic summary of all his earlier criticisms of Great Britain and the British prisoners who'd been so brutally treated during the war. It was also a very clever, deftly executed argument that seemed to suggest the British treatment of the Germans had been more humane. But it was an argument that could not be sustained. The British Ministry of Information had been in a state of near chaos for weeks as the debate played out in the press. While many had applauded the arguments, there were also many who had objected to the whole idea of comparing or contrasting the German and British treatment of prisoners. To most of them, it smacked of war propaganda. If the Germans had treated their prisoners well, then the British had treated theirs poorly. Nevertheless, it seemed likely that the Churchill ministry would win, and _The Times_ finally published what had been a very strongly worded editorial just a few weeks earlier. It said, "When we were prisoners in Germany, we considered ourselves in a worse plight than now; and we must be content if we have been as well treated in wartime as some of the Germans thought they had been in our time of trial." The issue had been decided. _The Times_ and other British newspapers would continue to call the Germans inhuman and the British humane. The Ministry of Information would not reveal which camp it considered the more humane of the two, and a great many questions about the conduct of the war would remain unanswered. That is, until a prisoner-of-war camp was struck on that cold, dark, bitterly cold night in late March. # ALMOST EVERY OTHER PRISONER WELCOMED ME when we arrived at the camp. "My God, don't look at me," cried one young soldier. "It's the same treatment they gave you. Don't worry about what the damned Germans did to me. What they did to _you_ was way worse." For a while, there was instant relief. We'd made it. It was almost over. "Maybe they'll take us out of this place," he added. "Where would they take us? Out of the war? Where are they taking us, soldier? It's been a long time, and I'd hoped that when we did go home, it would be after peace had been declared. I could hardly bear to think that it might be our last holiday together. Where are you going to go, soldier?" "Just up to the coast and see what they have to offer. The last beach holiday we had was in Portugal. We ran out of money. We couldn't afford a seaside cottage." The other prisoners seemed to understand his pain. They looked at me sympathetically. I could feel their distress, and for a moment I found myself going into the fantasy of a normal happy family enjoying one last holiday before life settled down to normal, and the job of winning the war began. "If you're just going to the coast, there's nothing much we can do to help you. We can't go there, not without the police, and we don't have any papers." He couldn't have been more than eighteen. The young German women had become the family now. The other men in the camp had been lost to the army; the only family he had left were the women. He had no job, no money and nowhere to go. A young German woman from the same company as my friend called out, "Don't worry about the police. Just go to the British Army Headquarters. They have a place for volunteers." By now I'd accepted that the best option for me was the camp commandant. He was the only one of the British soldiers at the camp I knew personally. The others, mainly from Headquarters, appeared to have no social skills at all and spent much of their time watching me carefully. At least they knew I had some status, even if my status had been created out of thin air. At least they knew my English, which was far more than the other German prisoners did. But he was also the least likely to get me arrested. "We're really sorry to hear about your family. Do you have children?" "Two. A son and a daughter. They are with my parents now." "Do you have a wife?" "Yes. She was caught in an air raid and they killed her, my wife and my baby son." The soldiers seemed to accept his story. I don't know why. I suppose it was obvious to them that he was so distraught that he had invented some tragic story that he thought would explain his grief. He was right in many ways. It explained much about me. I spent the first week in the camp just walking the yard, trying to find somewhere to hide. It wasn't easy. There were no beds for us, no shelter, not even a place to have a wash. There were only the men's toilets, about three yards from the kitchen door, and they were occupied by dozens of people. It was early morning, I remember, as I walked back there with the head commandant. He was walking ahead of me, his gun over his shoulder, when a German boy came running up to us. He handed the commandant a piece of paper, which the commandant read carefully. The boy was terrified. He was crying. I still have the piece of paper. It is written in my own hand, on the back of the sheet, and says that I want to be transferred to a military hospital. That night, we were allowed to walk to a part of the camp that had been set aside for officers. About three hundred of us were in a large room, surrounded by hundreds of guards. We were given no weapons, only an extra blanket. Some of the others from my company were there, and they took me to their company commander. "What the hell do you want to go to a hospital for, Storkey?" He looked at me coldly. "I'm ill, sir. I've got a fever." "All right, then, what you need is another beating." "That's all right, I've already had that," I said. I wasn't sure, but I believe I saw him wince. "You and I will be able to go home one day, and this war will be over. You're just a boy. Your parents, they will be very worried. This is a big thing for them. I want you to write home and tell them that you are okay." "Yes, sir." "Write down the address of the camp in this address book. When you get home, you will be well and whole, just like your family are. You will have a wife and a family to go home to, just like a proper soldier. When you come back, you will be an officer." When I'd written the address, he said, "Thank you, Storkey. I'm making you a sergeant." The commandant had told him that he didn't trust me. "He'll try to run away," the commandant had said, "so give him a beating. He's a good man for breaking out of a place. He's a natural fighter. It's his one redeeming feature." So that was what they had done. The sergeant asked me to come and sign a message. "You can go home, Storkey, we'll see to everything." I signed it. I was allowed to write a brief note to my parents. I didn't know whether it had been censored. They must have known what was happening, but they didn't read it. I wrote it in a childish hand that I hoped my father could recognize. "Where are you going, Storkey?" "To the beach, sir. I've just finished my work for the day. The sun is shining. Maybe I'll go fishing." He laughed. "All right, you can go fishing, but stay by the sea. That's the route the enemy will take." He pointed to the north. "You will be in the first wave of boats that sail back to England tonight. Every man is needed. There will be time enough to go fishing on the beach." He told me to be ready to leave in about five hours. It was already afternoon, and we had only had a few hours' sleep. I asked where we were being transferred to. "You'll find out in due course." The last time I'd been in a British military camp was in England, two and a half years earlier. I'd been in London when a friend of a friend of my mother's had invited me to have a meal at his house in the middle of May. It had been for almost a month. I'd eaten nothing for nearly two weeks. That night we'd drunk more beer than I'd drunk in my entire life, until we were all so drunk that we fell about the room, trying to hit