Pulosker, We Hardly Knew Thee

[Captain Poldark]

The Island of Pulosker, being no more than 2 kilometers from point to point was too small was too small to feature on any of the great maps of the world, nonetheless it had endured unchanging for centuries; the once mighty empire that had sponsored its colonization had long since vanished but the descendants of those pioneers continued to persevere in their insular lives that encompassed a world that comprised in its entirety the village known only as la Aldea , the nutmeg plantations of the island's hilly interior, the two lagoons known as Anchorage and Deadpool respectively, only the former of which – as the name suggested – afforded any kind of access to the sea.

The island itself lay at approximately the midpoint between Pineappleton and Touhatyn on the Zuidelijke Benelukken. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, the island was of indeterminate sovereignty; the rambling ivy-clad fort, whose name had been forgotten, existed in a state of singular neglect and the airstrip along the shore was maintained more for the benefit of unlicensed traders than any civil administration.

Nonetheless, it was from the fort that the approaching ship was first seen by two boys playing along the ruined ramparts at scavenging for brass or tin or anything not worn down by time that could be hammered, cut or forged into something new and useful by the village blacksmith. It was the taller of the two boys, a lithe, bronzed, youth by the name of Julio who first dropped the stick with which he was rooting amongst the accumulated dirty and weeds of untold years to silently point out to sea. His brother, Hernandez, continued contentedly to scrabble about on the terraplein of the rampart, oblivious until a well timed kick from Julio caught his attention.

The sleek white-hulled vessel appeared at first glance to be a yacht or schooner of some description; the flag was unfamiliar to Julio, a black cross on a white field with a tricolor of red and gold in its top mast-ward corner. It appeared to be an olden-day vessel, with a small central smoke stack and rigging for triangular sails fore and aft. Only gradually did Julio, shielding his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun, pick out the detail of an indistinct gray shape on the deck and the wraith like shapes of men who appeared to be moving about it in a purposeful manner. Even with the distorting effect of the heat haze Julio saw that it could only be the barrel of a gun.

Quickly Julio grabbed Hernandez by the scruff of his neck, the boy having gone back down on his knees to rummage in the debris strewn sand of the rampart once more, and slapped him once then twice to hold his attention – Hernandez was simple, even mother said so – and told him to run quickly and let father know that a strange ship was approaching the anchorage. Hernandez mouthed the words as he was told them, as if fitting the words into his mouth might help commit them to memory. Uncertain, he stood there and looked out towards the ship as if frozen in place, and it was only when Julio threatened to beat him properly that he turned and ran around the rampart to where the scarp and glacis and collapsed outwards making a rubble ramp leading back towards the atoll sands that linked the rocky outcrop of the fort to the main island.

Hernandez, for all his faults could run, and such was his exhilaration at running along the shore, past the fishing huts facing onto the lagoon side of the sandbar and past the weed strewn runway and its carelessly stacked, rust-streaked barrels of kerosine and gasoline, that by the time he brought himself gasping and panting into the main street, the only street in fact, and found his pa outside his hut mending fishing nets that the grown man of twenty-seven years had to threaten to cuff the boy with his great hulking fists before Hernandez could recollect what it was Julio had sent him off to tell.

Pa frowned and had the serious face like when Ma was yelling at him, like he was straining to say something but couldn't find the words or the courage to say them. Hernandez hated that – when Ma yelled, Pa would take his rum and go out amongst the fishing huts, and when he came back his fists always found Hernandez, never Julio and never ever Ma, only ever Hernandez – the stupid boy. Hernandez winced and wondered if he dared to run. It would only make Pa angry and the pain went on for longer when he was angry.

Instead Pa simply nodded. 'So Julio told you to say all this did he?' He asked. Earnestly relieved, Hernandez could only nod. 'And you remembered? Well done little Ox, somebody must have finally knocked some sense into you. Go find your mother. Tell her to let our harbormaster know we have guests arriving.' Elated, Hernandez ran off towards the family shack which was lent against the village palisade on the jungle side. He did not look behind him and so could not see his father's grim expression as he put down the fishing net and picked up a billhook and stood up to walk down towards the anchorage.

…

A crowd had gathered at the edge of the village as a pinnace from the schooner approached the anchorage's one rickety jetty. The islanders, armed variously with an assortment of rifles, shotguns, harpoons and machetes watched cautiously as the boat was rowed closer by a party of half a dozen men all dressed in a somewhat unusual, indeed slightly archaic, sailors uniform.

The landing party came ashore and was met at the jetty by two islanders, one, sporting a weathered coppery face and a dirty gray beard, was wearing a scuffed cap with an antique badge that bespoke of some long vanished authority. The other gentleman beside him was a surly faced individual in his mid to late twenties who carried a billhook with posture of someone who might finally welcome the opportunity to use it as a butchers cleaver. Five of the landing party approached, the sixth, carrying some sort of sub-machine gun with a drum barrel, remained on the jetty, ostensibly minding the boat yet also, from the direction of his barrel, covering the crowd lest they decide to surge forward.

It was the man with the cap who spoke first. 'What your business be about then, gentlemen?' he inquired, none too gently and without troubling to hide the wariness in his voice. One of the five stepped forward and briskly saluted, as if he had the honor of addressing an equal in rank and a fellow officer. In polite and respectful tones the visitor, alternating between heavily accented rote learned phrases expressed in the Common Trade Tongue and the occasional half-remembered Skerrian creole word, no less accented for that, explained that his ship was the HMS Markham, a revenue ship of the Royal Cutter Service of the Royal Navy.

'Whose Royal Navy?' Asked the man with the vicious-looking billhook, 'Why His Royal and Imperial Majesty the King of Gotzborg', replied the other man with a tone of mild surprise at the suggestion that there might be some other Royal Navy out there somewhere. Although they tried not to show it, both the islanders relaxed a little at that point. The Gotzers, whilst less common in these parts than they used to be, had a good reputation and more importantly paid in coin more reliable than stamped nickel or strips of plasticized paper.

'We noticed your settlement does not fly a flag. Who rules here?' The officer asked. The Harbormaster, being the title the man with the scruffy cap introduced himself to them with, shrugged a little before replying 'Sometimes the Natopians, sometimes that other bunch who don't talk proper, worse than you folks, if you pardon my saying. Mostly though they ignore us and we are happy enough with that.'

'So you pay no taxes?' The officer replied, affecting a gentle note of surprise. 'None that we can help avoiding.' Answered the billhook carrying man who had declined the opportunity to give a name or award himself a rank and title. 'A most convivial arrangement!' exclaimed the officer 'How I envy you.' He said and began to laugh, glancing over his shoulders to the sailors behind him who began to laugh also. The Harbormaster finally felt sufficiently at ease to venture a chuckle of his own. The officer now stepped forward and shook the Harbormaster's hand warmly but with a firm grip. 'Ich, I am Lieutenant Maximilian Fegelein, Cutter Service, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.' To which a bemused Harbormaster replied 'Raoul, er... likewise.' The billhook man nodded curtly and walked back towards the crowd. One of the Islanders called out to him. 'What do they want, Federico?' The man carrying the billhook looked across to where the man had called from and waved. 'The usual Jefe, either trade or they're lost. Gotzers though. Our beloved Master of the Harbor can take care of them, provided they can afford what he charges for pisswater in his cantina.'

…

Gradually the story came out, as divulged by the patrons of the Cantina in which the Gotzborgers were now holed up with Raoul as Harbormaster and proprietor taking it upon himself to handle such matters of high diplomacy for the Village. The Lieutenant was politely asking for milk and vegetables; their refrigeration unit had broken down and their captain was sick, they said, he needed fresh food. They were bound for one of the bigger islands in the Skerry Island chain looking to make repairs and were delighted to chance upon this charming little island. Raoul was delighted and swiftly arranged for enough provisions for four or five sick captains to be sent. A few days later the sailors returned. The captain was now grievously ill and a fault had been found in the engine, but could they have further food that might tempt him to eat? Again the fresh milk and vegetables, along with freshly caught fish and a rare bottle of palatable rum were readily given. The sailors came unarmed ashore in parties of ten or more and were welcomed by the islanders who were especially gratified by the interest they showed in the humble nutmeg harvest, which yes had indeed only recently been gathered in. The sailors were surprisingly sympathetic listeners, sympathetic to the travails of getting such temperamental trees to flourish in a harsh soil. They even showed appreciation for the product itself; dry, winkled and not much larger than a garden pea, and nodded knowingly as its many wondrous properties were listed that might cure a host of minor ailments, although they did laugh when one tried to tell them that ten grams taken as powdered would be enough to raise the dead. Fegelein, who had happened to pass the stall where this utterance was made, had merely remarked that it was an interesting theory and walked on.

The suggestion that the humble nutmeg might serve as an aphrodisiac was taken more seriously and orders for several bags were taken, payment was prompt and in full. The islanders were reassured once again reminding each other that there was none more honest than a Gotzer.

Julio and Hernandez were told to make themselves useful by carrying some of the lighter bags on board. Lighter was a relative term, it was still backbreaking work for their young frames. Nonetheless they were paid well for their time. Julio was especially flattered when Fegelein in person asked him about what he thought of the island; did he like it here, was the weather consistently as good as it was on this day, did hurricanes or storms occur often. Then there were other questions; were there many people on the island, was this the only village, what was its name, how long had it been inhabited, what were the women like – Julio's answer of 'silly' had brought a weak smile to Fegelein's face, but he inquired still further 'pretty though, yes' – and then there were other questions how often was the air strip used, what was the condition of the fort. Now the fort, that Julio could talk about, and so could Hernandez in his own faltering, hesitant way, having joined them now at the rails of the ship looking towards the land where the jungle line met the sandy shores of the anchorage lagoon and towards the rocky outcrop of hills that formed the spine of the small island. Fegelein was impressed by their knowledge and promised them a Thaler each if they would show him about the fort. Hernandez, whose hands had been wandering, leaned against the white painted hull. He felt a curious tackiness on his fingers and was surprised when, as he held his hands up to inspect his fingers, he found sticky viscous white paint on his finger tips. He realized that Pa would be furious if he saw how dirty his hands were and guiltily wiped his hands on his patched trousers, desperately hoping that no-one had noticed.

…

There was something that Federico did not like about this Fegelein character, it began with the suspicion that came naturally to any man who discovered that a sailor was spending any period of time in the company of his sons. Granted they could take Hernandez to sea if they wanted, provided they made a fair offer, although he had impressed on the day the ship arrived, the boy was clearly still an idiot. Ever since he had helped carry the nutmeg on-board for Raoul, Hernandez had looked sheepish, foolishly tried to avoid eye-contact and, when he thought no-one was looking, kept muttering to himself in a hushed voiced about 'white paint'. Clearly the boy had addled wits and the sooner he was rid of him the better. Julio was another matter. Julio was an observant lad, he deserved to be a fisherman like his father and like Federico's father before him. He would teach him the lore of the lagoon, the best spots to cast a net, how to spear a fish by adjusting for the tricks that light plays upon the translucent waters, they would go to the Deadpool and with hammers crack open the monstrous shells of the crabs that lived there and scoop out the soft pink meat inside. His son would find a good woman to marry in time, one with less of a temper than that he had had to endure. That was the future he had planed for his son, and no dirty foreign sodomite was going to take that from him, no matter how well they paid, promptly and in full.

He knew that Fegelein claimed to have an artistic bent, he had, ever since the boys had shown him, taken to skulking around the Fort making sketches and measurements and other curious things. Once when Federico had challenged him, Fegelein had even claimed to know the name of the Fort, although who this Tiego was and why anyone would name anything after him Federico neither knew nor cared. Whoever the Minorcans were, they no longer visited anymore.

This wasn't the only thing though. You would have thought, so Federico thought, that a ship that had lost its engine would have radioed for assistance. A visit from the Natopians or Alexandrians was never to be welcomed but the Royal Navy of Gotzborg could surely have called upon friendly governments for assistance without fear of any consequences more adverse than the possibility someone, somewhere, might remember the island existed at all. Yet they did not. Federico had taken his concerns to Raoul but the old sot had made nothing of it. 'These Northerners are proud people, it would hurt their pride to go crying for help when its something they might be able to fix themselves. Besides, this week has been the best business the island has seen in years, not since those narcos used to...' His wife, who had been stood at the bar cleaning dirty classes with a dirty dish cloth, had the presence of mind to cough. 'Yes, well,' he continued, trailing off, 'this island cannot live by fish and nutmeg alone.' Concluding as though that had settled the matter. Federico however would not be dissuaded.
'But what about their Captain?'
'What about him?' Raoul replied.
'Grievously sick, so they tell us.'
'Yes, it is such a shame.'
'Perhaps.'
Raoul cast a quizzical glance across to his Doubting Thomas of a customer.
'Well, I mean it would be if we knew what was wrong with him. If it was something serious wouldn't they be trying something more potent than onions and goats milk?'
'I'm sure they have a well stocked medicine cabinet and trained doctors on their tub, which is more than what we have. We should be grateful they chose this island on which to rest and recuperate. We are rather out of the way here, on this little island of ours.'
Federico sighed and took another sip of rum from his glass
'Yes, quite out of the way, and yet of all the little islands they had to choose ours, the littlest of them all.'
Raoul slammed his meaty fists down on the bar top, wincing only slightly at the pain in his joints. 'Damn it Federico. Don't you enjoy being paid, or would you prefer to pay for that you're drinking there with some stinking dead crabs?'
'I'd just like to know who it is who's paying.'
'You know you fool. It's the Gotzborg bloody navy.'
'So everyone keeps telling me, but seems to me they're a long fucking way from home...'
'Language!' Barked Raoul's wife who had put down the glass, and came across to stand beside her husband whilst brandishing the dishcloth as though it were an offensive weapon.
'My pardon Ma'am.' replied Federico with ill-grace. It wouldn't do to be thrown out of the only drinking establishment on the island, not unless he really wanted to get acquainted with Mad Hettie's home brew and he really didn't want to get acquainted with Mad Hettie at any level, particularly when it was known to cause insanity and blindness through prolonged use. Had there been any other alternatives to Raoul's monopoly Hettie would have been thrown into the Deadpool for the crabs long ago.
'Now don't mind Freddie', Raoul spoke soothingly as he stroked his wife's formidable forearm and tried to coax her into relinquishing the dishcloth 'he's just a bit slow to trust is all.'
'It would be easier to trust if we knew their Captain's name.'
Raoul blinked, nearly five days had passed since the ship's arrival and he'd not known the answer. He had wondered of course, but every time he had spoken to that nice Mr Fegelein there had always been something else come up or else he had laughed at one of Raoul's witty comments and the subject had somehow changed.
'Maxwell-Darcy.' said the Harbormaster's wife.
'Pardon, my dear?' Raoul asked tentatively 'Did you say you knew his name?'
'Of course, Bob Darcy. I thought everybody knew.'
Federico managed a 'humph' and turned to the contemplation of his rum glass.
'Dearest, how do you know this? I am certain Fegelein has never told either of us.' Raoul's voice tiptoed on egg-shells as he asked.
'You may not listen to your customers, “Husband”' - there was an odd cadence to the word as she said it – 'but I make a point to. Four jack tars in here on Morsday. They was talking low but I distinctly heard them talking about the making of a crate and then they toasted a “Captain Bob” and one of them goes “aye, here's to Darcy” and then they ups and leaves, just like that.'
'“Just like that.”' muttered Federico in a quiet mimicry before dropping a silver Thaler into his empty glass, then, loud enough to be heard this time, 'well I guess that's me done for the night. That pretty coin must cover my tab, right Raoul?' The Harbormaster looked sternly down his nose at him. 'If coins were as rare as they were last week, I might agree, but we've so many passing around on this island that their value must have halved.'
'At least halved.' Added the wife, with emphasis.
'Oh, come on! That's not how it works. That's a face value coin.' Federico's voice drowned in its own exasperation.
'It's the silver that has the value.' replied Raoul, a little smugly. 'Twice the silver on the island, makes each piece half the value of what it was...'

It was at that point that a Gotzer sailor burst in through the Cantina doors. All three stood at the bar turned to look at the man as though at an apparition. His face was a picture of distress.
'Captain,' he began, 'ist tot... ist dead.'

Raoul looked stricken whilst Federico could barely stifle the urge to laugh aloud his incredulity at the news.
…

The next day, with downcast heads, the crew of the Markham came ashore to confirm the sad news, the captain had died. His last wish however had not been to be buried at sea, as was customary, but rather to be buried among those who he, and his crew, had come to look on as friends. Might he not therefore be laid to rest in some small corner of the village graveyard.

The coffin, more of a crate Federico thought as he watched from the sandbank, was rowed ashore in the same pinnace that brought the original landing party ashore. There was a little disused Christian chapel on the edge of the village that was chosen for the funeral. In the absence of a pastor, Lieutenant Fegelein had taken on the duties of celebrant; the little chapel had been tastefully decorated with lilies, ferns and lotus flowers gathered by the island children in the early morning. All the islanders attended the service as a mark of respect. About halfway through, the Lieutenant standing at the pulpit asked if he and his comrades could share some moments alone with the departed. The villagers discretely withdrew and gathered outside the door, waiting to be recalled for the conclusion of the ceremony.

Not long afterwards the door was thrown open, and the mourners emerged, each man armed with an assault rifle. The island's entire population stood wide-eyed and terrified, quickly encircled by their erstwhile friends. The men over the age of fifteen were brusquely herded back into the chapel whilst the women and children were beaten towards the livestock pens and thrown in with the goats and pigs, a circle of gunmen stood around them. Raoul, also was separated from the crowd, and dragged back towards his Cantina, which was being ransacked by a second party of pirates – the pretense was now truly over – who had landed whilst the funeral service was underway. There, standing watch over a heap of quite unimpressive spoils taken from the drinking establishment, was Captain Robert Maxwell-Darcy, in the flesh and quite alive. Fegelein stepped forward and with a crashing blow delivered by the butt of his rifle sent the old Harbormaster staggering to his knees. Maxwell-Darcy, wearing a lightweight khaki jacket as if he had recently been on safari, turned to face the disheveled and terrified man.
'So you are the wretch who I can thank for the onions.' he sneered, as if it were of no consequence, which, if truth be told, it was not.
'I – I, we, thought you were sick, we wanted to help...'
'Wanted to make a quick buck from our misfortune, you mean.' The Captain corrected. 'Well, you were a fool to be so trusting, but you Skerrians are never the brightest so I won't hold it against you. No theatrics, Fegelein. Just kill the men... and any women over forty, or ugly.'
Raoul had only just begun to frantically protest when without warning an unseen hand forcefully grabbed at his beard and yanked his head upwards, bearing his neck for the knife that was drawn sharply across his throat. Blood spurted in an arc far wider than one might expect, splattering the Captain with faint dabs of claret that he brushed at regretfully, thinking they would be a devil to get out in the wash.

The men who had been herded back into the chapel had been banging and pounding furiously against the door which had been braced and barricaded from the other side. Federico, sensing the futility, stepped back from the press of men and took in his surroundings. At the far end, before the altar laid the empty coffin, now looking very definitely like the crate Raoul's wife had heard the men discussing the previous night, and, beside it, the sacking and packing cases in which the weapons and ammunition had been stowed. He was beside himself with rage, at the helplessness of it all, at how he'd been duped – how they'd all been duped – how he'd tamely allowed himself to be herded like a sheep, how his wife and the boys had been dragged aside and separated from him, and how they had fought against it more than he had. He couldn't believe it had happened, it couldn't be happening, not to him and not to them. And yet it was; his Miranda, his Julio and his Hernandez, even Hernandez, taken, taken from him. This would not do, he had to get them back. But how, the door was barred, and the men pounding uselessly against it would only get in his way. There had to be a way; the windows, if he could smash one and climb out then he could still have a chance to get to wherever they were keeping his family. Together they could escape, they could be free. But first he would have to get to them.

The windows were thin and narrow and set in stone above the height of a man, but not by much. Time and neglect had seen the wooden panels of the window frames rot and fall out, if he could clamber up and squeeze through however he might make it. With a strength borne of desperation he dragged a chapel pew over the nearest window on the south side. Without hesitation he jumped up, it wasn't enough to get him up onto the windowsill but it allowed him to grab at it and haul his head and shoulders up high enough to see outside. To see outside and to see the line of men advancing towards the chapel with burning torches. He let go and dropped back down awkwardly onto the pew. In desperation he cried out to the other men still crowded round the door.
'They're going to burn us!'
Heads turned, their looks alternatively fearful and incredulous. The pounding at the door stopped. No-one moved.
'I said they're going to burn us!'
'We heard you.' A sour voice from within the crowd said.
'Well, what are we going to do?' He exclaimed, horrified by their passivity.
'What can we do?' Someone asked him.
Federico's mind was blank. He had no answer.
'What can we do?' Another voice asked, closer now. Someone grabbed him, urgently, they shook him. 'What can we do?' The question repeated. Unwilling to look his doomed fellows in the eye he turned his face towards the wall. And saw the pew.
'Batter our way out.' he said.
'What?'
'Grab the pew nearest the door. We'll batter our way out.'
'But the pirates are outside!'
'So what? Better to be shot than burned.' It was all Federico could think of as an answer.
'Come on lads! Let's do this!' The shout came, Federico no longer knew who was talking, he might even have shouted it himself but it was as if the words were coming from outside himself yet they echoed through him, steeled his resolved, steeled the resolve of those around him. As one they grabbed a pew and lined it up in the aisle, men on either side, ready to raise it and to strike hard against the barricaded door. Federico braced himself, it was time to do or die. The scent of gasoline was now heavy in the air, a noisome, hateful, vapor speaking of the worst possible death he could imagine. Federico had no time for it. 'Get ready to heave, lads' he heard himself shout but it was then that he heard it, the faint clattering of something metallic that landed on a flagstone by his feet. It was a curious little thing, green and studded, almost pineapple in shape, a small tube protruding from it, and it hissed. It was something from outside, something bad. Almost on instinct Federico went to kick it away; and then his world exploded.

…

The tears stung Julio's eyes almost as much as the pain of the swelling bruises. In desperation he had thrown himself at the stockade fence when he saw the chapel begin to burn. His howl of anguish lost amidst the low moan of despair of the prisoners. The first time he had tried to climb the fence, the guard had merely smacked him in the face with the butt of his rifle. It had sent him reeling back to the ground with a blood streaming from a broken nose. The second time, they had not been so lenient. Instead he had been grasped by his wrists and dragged out of the enclosure and thrown down in the midst of a circle of angry men.
'So, you got some fight in yer?' he had heard one of them say, then the boots had laid in thick and fast, kicking relentlessly kicking. There was no pity, no mercy and no escape. Every part of his body now ached with indescribable pain; flesh and ligaments torn, limbs shattered, bones broken, by the time they had finished Julio was a wreck. Gradually the vehemence of the assault, along with the frequency of the kicks subsided.

Julio could barely open his eyes, and when he did it was as if he was seeing through a film of red encrusted gore. He could barely see, the flickering of flames, the movement between them of dark silhouettes - as though a dancing carnival of demons had descended upon his village, the stories that the old priest had told before he fled came to mind; this was hell and he was amongst the damned. Lying on the ground beside him, close to hand, he could make out a body, the shape of a woman, old, well-fed, the Harbormaster's wife. He was so tired, the pain was too much, he couldn't even remember her name. It was then that a shadow loomed up over him. It paused there, as if contemplating the pathetic ruined figure beneath it. Then it spoke, in a voice Julio could recognise and a name he could place – Fegelein.
'Such a pity. I had certain hopes for this one.' He spoke to some other unseen person, who replied.
'No matter. The boy is useless. Get rid of it.'
'Certainly, Captain.'
Julio barely moaned as the knife was plunged into his chest. As the blade twisted the last thing he heard before he passed into darkness was the sound, somewhere within the tumult of the village's death throes, of Hernandez quietly sobbing. It broke his heart as surely as the knife did.


…

It had, by Captain Robert Maxwell-Darcy's estimation, been a most successful venture. The party of twelve men left behind at Nivar to carry on looking into the Melanje business had freed up space to take on human cargo, and as the villagers had kindly spent the last week provisioning for their journey to the slave ports of the west, it would be at no extra-cost to himself. The money returned by the Khalypsil had been enough to buy the trust of the islanders; this along with anything else of value in every ransacked house, shack or store had now been removed and carried off to the ship, even the sheep and goats. A clean sweep of the island even brought in the remaining sacks of nutmeg he had not yet purchased.

The Harkalegar raised steam and spread sail, flying the flag now of Hamland. Alterations to the paint job and superstructure of the boat could follow the next time they found an unguarded inlet. The newly indentured serviles below decks would be allowed topside to carry on their share of the tasks, nothing too strenuous, lest the prize stock be damaged on its way to market. Some physical exertions and sunlight would help to maintain their condition; better than being kept confined in the dark and bestirred only when a member of the crew had some base urge to act upon. The merchandize was not to be spoiled; it might be worth mentioning to Fegelein that raping the prisoners was to be considered a disciplinary offense from now on. The boys had done him proud and had their fun, now it was time to focus on business.

It was going to be a profitable year.