Author's Note – This series of 'snapshots' arose as an exercise while outlining another story I hope to write eventually. However, I've decided to post these now. Each snapshot is exactly one-hundred words long. They should be thought of as a series of 'photographs' put together in order to (hopefully) give a coherent picture of the day. Most of them use the sense of sight, but a few use hearing. Those few are the only ones describing more than a split-second. These take place during the final days of Stalag 13, after one prisoner has had to make the ultimate sacrifice.

Dark clouds filled the sky over the camp, pressing down heavily and threatening snow. The guard towers were silhouetted darkly against the dim roundness of the pre-dawn sky, rising from the lines of barbed wire like angular fingers reaching up to touch the sky.

Eight men were assembled in the centre of the hard-packed snow of the compound, an honour guard representing a cross-section of the camp's varied nationalities. The men were too lean from their periods of captivity and their uniforms were mismatched and threadbare. Time had not been kind, but they still bore themselves proudly, waiting at attention.

Tight formations of men were assembling along the edges of the compound as the men emerged from their barracks. A set of double lines were forming around the edges of the compound, framing the honour guard. This once, the prisoners needed no prodding from the guards.

All of the men had dressed carefully in their best. Tattered uniforms had been pressed, but the trousers would no longer hold the creases. Worn boots had been polished, but the battered leather would not keep the shine.

The guards looked on nervously, their hands reaching out to finger the triggers of their weapons.