Germany, 1941, Close to the Polish Border
“Halt right there, Doctor Schuler, and put your hands where we can see them.” The Medic dropped his bags and raised his gloved hands in the air. He heard the sound of several guns being cocked. He chewed his lip, and the dove cooed in his cage. The Obersturmführer walked in front of his men to face the prisoner, his jackboots crunching in the freshly-fallen snow. “Turn to face me, Doctor,” the officer ordered. The Medic did so. He was facing seven soldiers; four in the back with rifles, and three in the front with sten guns. “Although I suppose you are no longer really a doctor, are you?” he asked mockingly. “After all, your medical license was revoked after the General Kohler incident.” The Obersturmführer spat at the Medic’s shoes.
“I suppose not,” the Medic replied.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I will continue to call you a doctor. There are so few in the me