Prisoners of War by Steve Yarbrough

shed any tears?”
    Breathing hard, Dan rose as L.C. balled his hands into fists. Dan’s first thought was that he’d have to make up some story to explain any cuts or bruises on his face, since otherwise there was no telling what folks might do to L.C. and Rosetta.
    But before L.C. could swing, a curious thing happened. The German with the angry purple stain on his face stood up and, stepping around the tallest prisoner, walked forward and gestured at the empty driver’s seat. “Maybe I try?”
    Since that first day in the field, he’d spoken to Dan four or five times, but only when the others were some distance away. He never said a lot—
Very hot this day . . . Here is many cotton
—so Dan couldn’t tell how much English he really knew, nor had he figured out why he referred to German as “their” language.
    Marty had warned him not to believe anything a prisoner told him. “They’ll dupe you,” he said. “They fooled a buddy of mine, and he ain’t coming home.” And he meant to find out exactly where this one had been captured, have them check his
Solbuch
up at the base camp in Como, because there were a few things about him that didn’t seem right.
    Now all Dan could do was stare at him, not knowing what to say.
    “Cat want to see can he get it going,” L.C. said. “It was me, I’d let him. I sure as hell don’t know how to make it run right, and you don’t, neither.”
    Dan glanced at the rear of the rolling store, where every one of them was sitting up straight, watching. If they wanted, he knew, they could commandeer the bus. The question was, Where could they go, especially with the transmission locked up?
    He stepped aside and let the German sit down. For a time, the prisoner studied the dashboard, then bent and looked underneath it at the pedals. Then he sat up, grabbed the stick and threw the transmission into reverse.
    When the bus lurched backwards, Dan sprawled onto the floor. L.C. managed to stop himself from falling by grabbing the handrail. Bottles and canned goods tumbled off the shelves and rolled into the aisle.
    Dan heard glass breaking, and several of the Germans hollering, then realized he was hollering, too.
    He struggled to his feet just as the prisoner jammed the gears again. This time, the bus hurtled forward, and he smacked his head on the door. L.C. toppled backwards over the railing, his feet sticking up in the air.
    The prisoner drove on for a few hundred yards, shifting from second to third, picking up speed, then slowing gradually, the bus rolling smoothly over the pavement. Finally, he pulled onto the shoulder.
    Dan sat on the floor, feeling a great purple bruise forming on his forehead. L.C. sprawled on the steps, rubbing his collar-bone. The aisle was littered with dented cans and broken bottles. For once, the tallest German wasn’t smiling. Face pale as buttermilk, he’d wrapped his arms around one leg of the drink box, which was anchored to the floor with steel bolts.
    The prisoner got out of the driver’s seat. “Sorry so rough,” he said.
    Wincing, L.C. stood and climbed the steps, then reached down and offered Dan a hand. “Maybe we’d be better off,” he said, “over there in the fight.”
    After signing the prisoners back into the camp, Dan dropped L.C. at his mother’s house, where he didn’t say a word, just trudged off across the field.
    Alvin was at his store, in high spirits, sitting on the front porch, smoking a cigarette and drinking an Orange Crush.
    “I had to slam the brakes on to keep from hitting a cotton trailer,” Dan said. “A bunch of stuff went flying off the shelves. Broke a few bottles and dented some cans pretty bad.”
    His uncle waved a hand as if brushing a fly away. “Don’t worry about it.” He puffed on his cigarette, and he had that peculiar gleam in his eyes. “I just made me a dandy little deal with a condom distributor. Every rubber in the Delta has to pass through my hands.”
    “Before use, or after?” Without