The bleak march progressed and on the day of the spring equinox Peter collapsed onto a bunk at the prisoner camp in Sandbostel, less than seventy miles away from Fallingbostel where he’d started his murderous trip two and a half months ago.
The long winter march had taken everything out of him and he had no idea how he’d managed to survive when so many had died. Throughout the past two weeks the weather had warmed. Bright green leaves budded on the trees and flowers poked their heads through the ground, announcing the arrival of spring. Normally, the renewal of spring would bring a smile to Peter’s face, but sick, hungry and tired as he was, he cared for nothing but sleep and food.
The deep gnawing pain of hunger torturing him every minute of every day had become his constant companion,
