Colonel Helmut Albrecht looked at a picture in the corner of his office. He was at least 20 years younger then and still flying before his disgrace of injuring the Black Baron. A pair of tri-planes sat in the background. Happy moments played through his mind.

He often wondered what it would be like to fly for pleasure. To soar with the birds, not watching for enemy aircraft. That was a sensation he may never know. First the Great War and now the rise of the Third Reich insured that peace will not come quietly.

Albrecht shifted his gaze from the photo to the small stack of papers in front of him. Sometimes it felt like he was fighting his own private war with the Luftwaffe High Command. “I may be Kommandant of a POW camp, but we must still treat them as humans,” he often said.

His commander, General Johann Klein, never agreed with this. “These men have killed countless Germans, and you insist they’re human. Their militaries have extracted their humanity long ago. We’re targets, Helmut! They do not care.”