"If this is what the Geneva treaty said captured officers were to eat, I'm a spalpeen," O'Malley muttered as he marched away with Stan to their quarters.
They found themselves quartered in an old stone house which had at one time been a residence. There was a high wall around it with many guards pacing back and forth and two searchlights located on platforms which were also occupied by a machine gun and its crew. But there was a yard and a few trees and shrubs.
"Not as bad as a prison camp," Stan said.
"Not very good," O'Malley said as he stood looking up at one of the machine-gun nests.
The boys were taken to a room on the ground floor where they met several other fellows from the Eighth. They had been located at the camp for several months and were eager to hear news from England.
Stan and O'Malley talked with them for a while, answering their questions. One of the boys, a bombardier from a Fort, explained the workings of the camp.
"They change us around quite a bit. New men come and some of the old heads go. I figure they do that to nip any escape attempts in the bud." He laughed sourly. "I never heard of anybody getting away from one of these camps."
Another chap drifted in and seated himself. He was a lank Britisher with a mop of black hair.
"I hear you hail from the fighter strip near Diss."
"That was our outfit," Stan said.