Frank had seen and lived through a lot of things during the war. He had spent nights in the trenches, he had eaten guinea pigs, had crushed mosquitos on his back to create a crust so no others could get at him. He had seen friends and comrades die for Poland.
And now he found himself bound and captured by two Russian soldiers.
It was over. The Europeans, the North Americans, the other countries, they had all come to fight the war and declared victory. The enemy was to let any captives go. Oh, but not these two, they were too proud for that.
Frank had escaped captivity and had clumsily escaped death somehow — as his luck had it — throughout the entire war. This was his third war in which he’d fought, he would have liked to think he was better than to get captured right at the end of it by men with egos bigger than his own.
And they were the chatty type on top of that.
He chuckled at his predicament, as his captors set him down, despite one of them hitting his shoulder with the butt of his rifle. They tied him to a picket while they set up a campfire and settled down to rest.
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