Hart’s War

Chapter Nine

By midday. Tommy had finished interviewing the remaining witnesses arrayed against Lincoln Scott and all had told him obvious bits and pieces of the same story-tales of anger and enmity between two men that transcended the prisoner-of-war camp, and spoke more about the situation back home in the States.

All the kriegies on Captain Townsend's witness list had seen the hatred displayed by the two men. One man told how he'd watched Trader Vic pick up Scott's Bible and taunt him, picking out random passages and applying racist interpretations to the Good Book's words, insults that seemed to make the black flier seethe with anger. Another declared he'd seen Scott tearing in half the scrap cloth that later became the handles to both the pan and the knife. A third described how the two men had fought when Bedford accused Scott of the theft, and how quick the Tuskegee airman had been with his fierce right cross, catching Vic in the upper lip. If Scott had hit him in the jaw, the kriegie said, Bedford would have dropped in his spot.

As he wandered through the camp, alone with his thoughts despite the presence of five thousand other American airmen, Tommy added each small piece of testimony from each witness together, and recognized that the confidence displayed by Captain Townsend and Major Clark was well founded.

Portraying Scott as a killer was not going to be an overly difficult task. Indeed, by failing to conform, by remaining aloof and independent, the black flier had consistently behaved in a manner that was likely to make most of the kriegies believe him capable of this different type of killing. It was the simplest leap of imagination: from loner to murderer.

Tommy kicked at the dirt and thought: If Scott had made friends, if he'd been outgoing, communicative then the vast majority of the kriegies would have ignored the color of his skin. Tommy was sure of this. But, by setting himself alone and apart from his first minute at

Stalag Luft Thirteen no matter how justified he might have been in taking that route Scott had created the makings of his own tragedy. In a world where everyone was struggling with the same fears, illness and death and loneliness, and the same hungers, food and freedom, he had behaved differently, and that behavior, as much as distrust over the color of his skin, was the cause of the hatred arrayed against him.

Tommy was persuaded that the murder charge was buttressed by that antagonism, which, from the prosecution's viewpoint, was probably ninety percent of their case. The bloodstains, being absent from the bunk room on the night of the murder, the discovery of the knife all these things when taken together painted a compelling portrait. It was only upon examining each separately that the supposition unraveled somewhat.

Somewhat, he thought. Not completely.

A troubling doubt crept into his empty stomach and he bit down on his lower lip, pensive.

Tommy stopped, taking a moment to look up into the sky above, the typical penitent's search for guidance from the heavens. The normal sounds of the camp surrounded him, but they faded away, as he considered the situation. He thought to himself at that moment that for much of his young life, he'd waited for events to happen to him. He blindly believed even if incorrectly that he'd been a passive participant in so much. His home. His school. His service. That he'd managed to stay alive to this point was more by the accidents of good fortune than by anything he'd deliberately seized for himself.

He understood that this waiting for life to happen to him might not work much longer. Certainly, it wasn't going to work for Lincoln Scott.

As he walked, he shook his head, sighing deeply. He felt no closer to understanding why Trader Vic was killed than he had on the morning of the murder. And, absent the ability to get up before the tribunal and offer an alternative, he realized Scott's chances were slight.

There was a spot of sunshine striking against the exterior wall of Hut 105, making it glisten and seem almost new, and Tommy walked over to it. He slumped against the hut and slowly sank to the hard ground, where he stayed, seated, turning his face toward the warmth. For a moment the sun burned his eyes, and he raised a hand to his forehead.

From where he was sitting, he could see through to the wire, and beyond to the woods. There was sound coming from the distance, and he bent toward it, straining to determine what it was. After a moment, he recognized the occasional noisy thud and crash of a tree being felled, and he guessed that just beyond the line of dark trees that marked the start of the forest was where the Russian slave-prisoners were clearing space. It wouldn't be long, he guessed, before the sounds of hammers and saws would be heard as construction began on another camp to hold more Allied airmen. This was what Fritz Number One had told him was under way, and he had no doubt that the ever-present sight of B-17 contrails high in the sky during the day and the deep nighttime rumblings of British raids on nearby installations and rail lines meant that the Germans were acquiring new Allied crews with depressing frequency.

For a long moment he listened to the faded sounds coming from the forest and he supposed that it was backbreaking work being performed by men close to starvation, sick, and near death. He shuddered briefly, imagining what life was like for the Russian prisoners. Unlike the Allied fliers, they had no building compound. Instead, they camped in all weather under makeshift lean-tos and leaky tarpaulins stretched as tents, behind temporary barbed-wire rolls. No toilets. No kitchens.

No shelter. Snarling dogs and trigger-happy guards watching over them.

There were no Geneva Convention rules governing their imprisonment. It was not unusual to hear the occasional sharp report of a rifle, or burst of machine-gun fire from the woods, which all the kriegies understood to mean that some Russian had realized the inevitability of his death, and had done something to hasten it.

Tommy shook his head briefly, and thought: Death must seem like freedom to those men.

Then he looked at the tall fences of barbed wire enclosing Stalag Luft

Thirteen and realized: Imprisonment must seem like death to some men right here.

He felt an odd quickening in his stomach, as if he'd seen something that was surprising. He stared at the wire again.

Not a bad spot, he thought abruptly. The guard tower to the north is a good fifty yards away and the one to the south another seventy-five.

Their searchlights wouldn't quite overlap, either. Nor did the fields of fire belonging to the machine guns mounted on either side of the tower. At least, that was what he guessed because he knew himself not to be expert in these sorts of details, although others inside the camp were.

He suddenly thought to himself: If I were a member of the escape committee, this would be a spot I would give serious consideration to.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to guess the distance to the forest. One hundred yards, minimum, he thought. A football field. Even if you managed to blitz through the wire with a pair of homemade shears, it was still too far for anyone not willing to risk everything on a single dash for freedom.

Or was it?

Tommy scraped up a handful of loose, sandy earth, and let it stream through his fingers. It was the wrong dirt. This he knew from talking with men who'd worked on the unsuccessful tunnels. Too hard and dry, too unstable. Forever caving in. Vulnerable to the probes from the ferrets. He shuddered at the idea of digging beneath the surface. It would be stifling, hot, filthy, and dangerous. The ferrets also occasionally commandeered a heavy truck, loaded it with men and material, and drove it, bouncing along, around the outside perimeter of the camp. They believed the weight would cause any underground tunnel to collapse. Once, more than a year earlier, they'd been right. He remembered the fury on Colonel MacNamara's face when the long days and nights of hard work were so summarily crushed.

It was the same look of frustration and despair that the colonel wore a few weeks back, when the two men digging had been buried alive. Tommy looked over at the barbed wire.

No way out, he told himself. Except the worst way.

And then, in that second, he wondered whether this was true.

To his left, he suddenly spotted an officer with a metal hoe working a small patch of garden, dutifully cultivating the rows of turned earth over and over again. There were similar gardens all along the length of Hut 106. All were well-tended.

Dirt, he thought, fresh dirt. Fresh dirt being blended with old.

He wanted to stand, look closer, but with a great internal tug at his emotions and a lassoing of the ideas that began to spring to his mind, he remained where he sat.

Tommy took a long, slow breath, releasing the air like a man ascending through the water. He lowered his head, trying to make it seem as if he were lost in thought, when in reality his eyes were darting back and forth, searching the area around him. He knew someone was watching him. From a window. From the exercise yard. From the perimeter path.

He did not know precisely who, but he knew he was being watched.

Abruptly, from the front of the hut, he heard a sharp wolf whistle, the double-pitched sound that in happier places meant a pretty woman was sashaying past. Almost immediately afterward, there was the sound of a metal waste container being slammed shut twice, another double report.

Then he heard a single kriegie voice call out: "Kein drinkwasser!" in a distinctly flat, twangy American accent. Someone from the Midwest, Tommy thought.

He stretched out his arms, like a man who'd been dozing, and lifted himself to his feet, dusting off his pants. He noticed that the officer who'd been tending the garden across from where he was seated had disappeared, and this made him very curious, though he took pains to hide this observation. A few moments later, Fritz Number One came sauntering around the front of the hut. The ferret was making no attempt to move through the camp with any concealment; he knew that his own presence had already been noticed by the fliers assigned to stooge duty that day. He was merely reminding the kriegies that he was there, as always, and alert. When Fritz Number One saw Tommy, he walked over to him.

"Lieutenant Hart," he said, grinning, "perhaps you have a smoke for me?"

"Hello, Fritz," Tommy replied.

"Yes, if you'll escort me to the British compound."

"Two smokes then," Fritz answered.

"One for each direction."

"Agreed."

The German took a cigarette, lit it, took a deep drag, and slowly blew out smoke.

"Do you think the war will end soon, lieutenant?"

"No. I think it will go on forever."

The German smiled, gesturing with his hand for the two of them to start moving across the compound toward the gate.

"In Berlin," the ferret said slowly, "they talk of nothing except the invasion. How it must be thrown back into the sea."

"Sounds like they're worried," Tommy said.

"They have much to worry about," Fritz answered carefully.

He looked up into the sky.

"A day like this one would be right, don't you think, lieutenant? For launching an attack.

That is what Eisenhower and Montgomery and Churchill must be imagining back in London."

"I wouldn't know. All I did was navigate a plane. Those gentlemen rarely consulted me with their plans. And anyway, Fritz, planning invasions wasn't my particular cup of tea."

Fritz Number One looked momentarily confused.

"I do not understand these words," he said.

"What has drinking tea to do with military maneuvers?"

"It's another saying, Fritz. What it means is that I don't have any sort of education or interest in that thing."

"Cup of tea?"

"That's right."

"I will remember." The two men continued toward the sentries at the gate, who looked up as they approached.

"Again you have helped me, lieutenant. Someday I will speak truly like an American."

"It's not the same thing, Fritz."

"Same thing?"

"Not the same as being one."

The ferret shook his head.

"We are what we are. Lieutenant Hart. Only a fool apologizes. And only a fool refuses to take advantages from what is in front of him."

"True enough," Tommy answered.

"I am not a fool, lieutenant."

Tommy took a sharp breath and measured quickly what the German was saying, listening hard to the soft tones, trying to see into the suggestions beyond the words.

The two men marched in unison toward the British compound.

Right before they reached the gate, Tommy asked in an idle voice that masked his sudden intensity, "The Russians building the new camp… how close to completion are they?"

Fritz shook his head. He continued to speak in a quiet, concealed voice.

"A few months, perhaps. Maybe a little time longer. But perhaps never. They die too fast. Every few days the trains arrive at the station in town bringing a new detachment.

They are marched into the woods and take over for the men who have died. It seems that there is no end to Russian prisoners. The work goes slowly. Day after day, the same."

The ferret shuddered slightly.

"I am glad to be here, instead," he said.

"You don't go over there?"

"Once or twice. It is dangerous. The Russians hate us very much. In their eyes, you can see they wish us all dead. Once a Hundfuhhrer released his dog into the camp. A big Doberman.

A vicious beast, Lieutenant Hart, more a wolf than a dog. The fool thought it would teach the Ivans a lesson. Idiot." Fritz Number One smiled briefly, shaking his head.

"He had no respect.

This is stupid, don't you think. Lieutenant Hart? One must always respect one's enemy. Even if one hates, one must still have respect, no? Anyway, the dog disappeared. The fool stood at the wire, whistling and calling, "Here, boy! Here, boy!" Idiot. In the morning, the Ivans threw out the skin. That was all that was left.

They ate the rest. The Russians, I think, are animals."

"So you don't go over there?"

"Not often. Sometimes. But not often. But see this, Lieutenant Fritz

Number One quickly glanced around to see if there were any German officers in the vicinity. Spying none, he slowly removed a shiny brass object from the breast pocket of his tunic.

"… Perhaps you would like to make a trade? This would make an excellent souvenir, when you finally return home to America. Six packs of cigarettes and some chocolate, maybe two bars, what do you say?"

Tommy reached out and took the object from Fritz's hand.

It was a large, heavy, rectangular belt buckle. It had been polished carefully, so that the red hammer and sickle embossed on the buckle glistened in the sunlight. Tommy hefted it in his hand and wondered for a moment whether Fritz had traded bread for it, or whether he'd simply removed it from the waist of a dead Russian soldier. The thought made him shudder.

He handed it back.

"Not bad," he said.

"But not what I'm looking for."

The ferret nodded.

"Trader Vic," he said, with a wry smile, "he would have seen the value, and he would have met my price. Or come very close. And then he would have turned around and made a profit."

"You did much business with Vic?" Tommy asked idly, although he listened carefully for the answer.

Fritz Number One hesitated.

"It is not permitted," he said.

"Many things that happen aren't permitted," Tommy replied.

The ferret nodded.

"Captain Bedford was always seeking souvenirs of war, lieutenant. Many different items. He was willing to trade for anything."

Tommy slowed his pace as they approached the entrance to the British compound, nodding, realizing that the ferret was trying to tell him something, and Fritz Number One put out his hand and just touched Tommy's forearm.

"Anything," the German repeated.

Abruptly, Tommy stopped. He turned and eyed Fritz Number One carefully.

"You found the body? Right, Fritz?

Just before morning Appell, right? Fritz, what the hell were you doing in the compound then? It was still dark, and no Germans are wandering around inside the wire after lights out, because the tower guards have orders allowing them to shoot anyone seen moving around the camp. So why were you there, when you could have been shot by one of your own men?"

Fritz Number One smiled.

"Anything," he whispered. Then he shook his head.

"I have helped you now, lieutenant, but to say more might be extremely dangerous. For the both of us."

The ferret gestured toward the gate to the British compound, swinging open to allow him to enter.

Tommy held a number of questions in check, passed the German another cigarette as he had promised, and then, after a momentary hesitation, pressed the remainder of the package into the ferret's hand. Fritz

Number One grunted a surprised thanks and broke into a grin. Then he waved Tommy forward, and watched as the American walked into the

British camp, looking for Renaday and Pryce, Tommy's head starting to swim with ideas. Neither man paid much attention to a squad of British officers, all carrying towels, soap, and meager assortments of spare clothing, heading in the opposite direction toward the shower block. A pair of desultory, bored, and unarmed German guards, their heads drooping as if they were fatigued, escorted the men, who cheerily marched through the dust of the front gate, breaking into the usual wildly ribald song as they strolled past.

"Most curious," Phillip Pryce said, leaning his head back momentarily to scan the skies for a stray thought, then pitching forward and fixing

Tommy with his most unwavering gaze.

"Truly, most intriguing. There's no doubt, my lad, that he was trying to say something?"

"No doubt whatsoever," Tommy replied, kicking at the ground, raising a puff of dirt with his boot. The three men were collected by the side of one of the huts.

"I don't trust Fritz, not any of the Fritzes, not Number One, Two, or

Three, and I don't trust any other bloody fucking Kraut," Hugh muttered.

"No matter what he says. Why would he help us? Answer me that one, counselor."

Pryce coughed hard once or twice. He was sitting with his pants rolled up in a spot of warm sunshine, both feet lowered into a rough dented steel basin that he periodically replenished with near-boiling water.

He held one foot up, eyeing it.

"Blisters, boils, and athlete's foot, which, of course, in my case is an immense contradiction in terms," he said with a mock-rueful grin. He coughed dryly once again.

"My God, I'm bloody well falling apart at the seams, boys. Nothing seems to work too well." He smiled again, turning toward the

Canadian.

"You're right, of course, Hugh. But on the other hand, what incentive would Fritz have to lie?"

"I don't know. He's a right devious bastard. And always angling for promotions and medals or whatever it is the Krauts like to reward their bloody hard workers with."

"A man out for himself?"

"Absolutely, goddamn right," Hugh snorted.

Pryce nodded, turning back to Tommy, who anticipated what the older man was about to say and beat him to it.

"But, Hugh," he said swiftly, "that suggests that he would be telling me the truth. Or at least trying to point me in some correct direction. Even if he is a German, we all agree that Fritz is mainly out for himself. And he sees everything in the camp as an opportunity.

More or less the same way Trader Vic did."

"So," Hugh asked, "what do you suppose he's talking about?"

"Well, what are we missing? What do we need to know?"

Hugh smiled.

"Two things: the truth and the means of finding it."

Pryce nodded. He turned back to Tommy and spoke with sudden intensity: "I think this could be important. Tommy.

Very much so. Why was Fritz inside the wire in the predawn dark? He could very well have paid for that little trip with his life if he'd been spotted by one of these teenagers that the Krauts are enlisting and putting up in the guard towers. And it doesn't seem to me that

Fritz is the type of gentleman to risk an accidental death unless the reward is great."

"Personal reward," Hugh added.

"I don't think Fritz does much for the fatherland unless it helps him out, as well."

Pryce clapped his hands together once, as if the ideas flooding through his head were as warm as the water he was pouring over his ravaged feet. But when he spoke, it was slowly, with a deliberateness that surprised Tommy.

"Suppose Fritz's presence implies both?" Pryce then made his hand into a fist and waved it with a sense of triumph in the air in front of him.

"I think, gentlemen, that we have been slightly foolish. We have spent our time considering the murder of Trader Vic and the accusation against Lincoln Scott in precisely the manner that the opposition desires. Perhaps it is time to consider these things differently."

Tommy Hart sighed.

"Phillip, once again, you're being cryptic and slightly obtuse."

"But that's my manner, my dear boy."

"After the war," Tommy said, "I think I shall require you to come visit the States. A lengthy visit. And I will force you to sit around an old woodstove inside the Manchester General Store one day in the dead of winter when the snow is piled up about six feet high outside the window and listen to some old Vermonters talk about the weather, the crops, the upcoming fishing season in the spring, and whether or not this kid Williams the Red Sox have playing for them will ever amount to anything in the majors. And you will discover that we Yankees speak concisely and always directly to the point. Whatever the hell that point might be" Pryce burst into a laugh tinged with coughing.

"A lesson in forthrightness, is that what you have in mind?"

"Yes. Precisely. Straight-shooting."

"Ah, a distinctly American phrase, that."

"And a quality that will be needed on Monday morning at zero eight hundred, when Scott's trial commences."

Hugh grinned.

"He's right about that, Phillip. Take it from me: our southern neighbors are nothing if not straightforward.

Especially MacNamara, the SAO. He's right out of West Point and probably has the uniform code of military conduct tattooed on his chest. It won't do a lick of good to suggest anything in trial. The man has little imagination.

We're going to have to be exact."

Pryce seemed abruptly to be lost in thought.

"Yes, yes, that is so," he said slowly, "but I wonder… " The emaciated, wheezing Englishman held up his hand, cutting off both Tommy and Hugh from speaking. Both men could see his mind working hard behind his eyes, which darted about.

"I think," Pryce started slowly, after a long pause, "that we should reassess the entirety of the crime. What do we know?"

"We know that Vic was killed in a hidden spot an entire alleyway away from the location where his body was actually found. We know that his corpse was discovered by a German ferret who shouldn't have been inside the camp at that hour. We know that the murder weapon and the very method of death are different from that which the prosecution will contend…"

Tommy paused, then added, "Arrayed against these elements, we have Lincoln Scott's bloody shoes, bloodstained flight jacket, a weapon that also has blood on it, though it is doubtful that it was used in the killing…"

Tommy sighed, continuing, "And we have well-documented animosity and threats."

Pryce nodded his head slowly.

"Perhaps we would be wise to examine all the factors separately. Hugh, tell me: What does moving the body tell you?"

"That the murder location would compromise the killer."

"Would Lincoln Scott have moved the body closer to his own hut?"

"No. That would make no sense."

"But putting Vic in the Abort made sense to someone."

"Someone who needed to make certain that the actual crime scene vicinity wasn't searched. And, if you consider it, who would do more than a perfunctory examination of the body inside the Abort. The place smells…"

"Visser did," Hugh grunted.

"It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest."

"Ah," Pryce grinned.

"An interesting observation. Yes.

Tommy, I think it is safe to assume that despite his Luftwaffe uniform,

Herr Visser is Gestapo. And a policeman with expertise.

And it is doubtful that whoever moved Vic's body would have anticipated his arrival on the scene. They would probably have assumed that the somewhat prissy and stiff Von Reiter would be in charge of the crime scene. Now, would Commandant Von Reiter have carefully searched the Abort? Not bloody likely. But all this prompts a second question: If the killer wanted to avoid a search of a specific location… well, who was he afraid of? Germans or Americans?"

Tommy raised an eyebrow.

"The trouble is, Phillip, every time I think we're making some sort of progress, new questions arise."

Hugh snorted.

"Damn right. Why can't things be simple?"

Pryce reached out and touched the hulking Canadian on the arm.

"But you see, accusing Scott of the crime is simple.

And therein lies the lie, if you will."

Pryce wheezed a laugh, which translated into a cough, but still smiling, still enjoying himself, still delighting in each intricacy they unfolded, he turned back to Tommy.

"And the unexplained and somewhat surprising appearance of Fritz Number

One on the scene? This tells us what?"

"That he had a deeply compelling reason to be there."

"Do you think that the illicit trade of some item of contraband could bring Fritz and Trader Vic out in the dead of night at considerable risk to the both of them?"

"No." Tommy spoke before Hugh could reply.

"Not for a minute. Because Vic had already managed to trade for all sorts of illegal items. Cameras. Radios. Souvenirs.

"Anything…" Fritz said. But even the most special of acquisitions can still be managed in regular daytime hours. Vic was an expert at that."

"So, whatever it was that put both Vic and Fritz Number One out and abroad in the midst of considerable danger had to be something extremely valuable to the both of them…"

Pryce mused.

"And something that was best hidden from everyone else in the camp."

"You're assuming that it was the same thing that brought them out. We don't know that," Tommy said sharply.

"But, I suspect, it is the avenue we are obligated to travel," Pryce said with determination. He turned to Tommy.

"Do you see something in all this, Thomas?"

And Tommy did.

"Something best hidden…" An electric idea raced through his imagination. He was about to speak, when the thoughts of all three men were sharply interrupted by a sudden burst of shouts and alarm coming from outside the wire, past the main gate. In unison, all three turned toward the noise, and as they did, they stiffened as they heard the staccato sound of a weapon being fired, the crack of the rifle riveting the afternoon air.

"What the bloody hell…" Hugh started to ask.

Almost instantly, a detachment of guards, their uniforms hastily thrown on, but bearing weapons at port arms, emerged from a building in the administration compound. The soldiers were jamming steel helmets onto their heads, trying to button their tunics. The squad took off sharply, running down the road past the commandant's office, a Feldwebel shouting hurried instructions. No sooner had the air filled with the heavy tread of their boots slapping into the hard dirt road, than at least a half-dozen ferrets blasting away at their whistles came racing through the front gate, screaming obscenities and urgent commands between shrill shrieks from their whistles.

The siren that was ordinarily used only for air raids started up, wailing loudly. Tommy, Hugh, and Pryce all saw Fritz Number One in the midst of the group. The German spotted them and, waving his arms wildly, roared angrily: "In formation!

Line up! Line up! Raus! Schnell! Immediately! We must count!"

None of the ferret's usual wheedling jocularity was contained in any of the words. His voice was high-pitched, insistent, and frantically demanding. He pointed a finger at Tommy.

"You! Lieutenant Hart! You are to stand to the side and be counted with the British!"

Another nearby volley of rifle shots creased the air.

Without any further explanation, Fritz Number One raced into the center of the camp, continuing to shout commands.

As he passed, the parade ground began to fill with British airmen, all struggling into their jackets, pulling on boots, jamming caps on their heads, hurrying toward the unexpected Appell. Tommy turned to his two companions, only to hear Phillip Pryce feverishly whisper a single wonderful, yet terrible, altogether heart-stopping word:

"Escape!"

The British airmen stood at attention in their assembly yard for nearly an hour, as ferrets moved up and down the rows of men, counting and recounting, swearing in German, refusing to answer any questions, especially the most important.

Tommy lingered perhaps a half-dozen yards to the side of the last block of men, flanked on either side by two other American officers who'd also been caught inside the British compound when the escape attempt took place. Tommy only barely recognized the two other Americans; one was a chess champion from Hut 120 who frequently bribed goons to let him pass over to where the competition was better. The other was a slender actor from New York who'd been enlisted by the British for one of their theatrical performances. The onetime fighter pilot made a more than convincing blond bombshell, when decked out in homemade wig, cheap makeup, and a slinky black evening gown refashioned by the camp's tailors from scraps of worn and tattered uniforms, and was therefore in demand in both compounds' theatrical productions.

"Still can't figure what fer Christ's sakes is going on," the chess master whispered, "but the Krauts sure look angry as hell."

"Lotsa talk. And a couple of those formations look to be shy more than a couple of men," the actor replied.

"Think they'll keep us here much longer?"

"You know the damn Germans," Tommy replied softly.

"If there's only nine guys standing where yesterday there were ten, well, hell, they've got to count maybe a hundred times over and over, just to make sure they're right…"

Both the other Americans grunted in assent.

"Hey," the chess champion muttered, "look who's coming.

The Big Cheese, himself. And ain't that the new little cheese, right at his side? The guy who's supposed to be watching over your show, right. Hart?"

Tommy looked across the compound and saw that a red-faced Oberst Von Reiter, in full dress uniform, as if he'd been interrupted on the way to an important meeting, was striding down the steps of the main office building. Trailing behind him, in his usual slightly rumpled, much less spit-and-polished appearance, was Hauptmann Heinrich Visser. In contrast to Von Reiter's hard-edged eyes and ramrod bearing, Visser seemed to have a faint look of amusement on his face.

But Visser's half-smile could just as easily have been a look of cruelty, Tommy thought, which probably spoke a great deal about the sort of man he was.

The two officers were trailed by a substantial squad of goons, all bearing machine pistols or rifles. In the midst of this group, close to two dozen British officers, all in various forms of undress-including two totally naked men-emerged from the camp offices. One man was limping slightly. The two naked men wore immense grins on their faces. All seemed cheery, and more than slightly pleased with themselves, despite the fact that they were marched forward with their hands clasped behind their heads.

The actor and the chess champion saw the same contrast between the Germans and the English at the same moment Tommy did. But the chess champion whispered, "The limeys might think this is something of a joke, but I'll bet the house that Von Reiter doesn't find it all so damn funny."

The officers and the captured men marched past the gate and came to a rest at the front of the formations of British airmen. The Senior British Officer, a mustachioed, ruddy-faced bomber pilot with a shock of reddish hair streaked with gray, stepped to the front, calling the men in their ranks to attention, and several thousand sets of heels clicked together smartly. Von Reiter glared at the SBO, then turned to the rows of airmen.

"You British, you think war is some game? Some sort of sport, like your cricket or rugby?" he demanded in a loud, angry voice that carried over the heads of the assembled men.

"You think we play at this?"

Von Reiter's fury fell like a thunderstorm on their heads.

No one replied. The captured men behind him slowly grew silent.

"It is all a joke to you?"

From within the ranks a single voice called out in a heavy mock-Cockney accent: "Anything to break the bleedin' monotony, guv'nah!"

There was laughter, which faded quickly under Von Reiter's glare. His eyes flashed with rage.

"I can assure you that the Luftwaffe High Command does not consider escape to be a laughing matter."

From another section, a different voice, this time with an Irish lilt, answered, "Well then, boyo, the joke's on you this time!"

Another smattering of laughs, which again ceased almost instantly.

"Is it now? "Von Reiter asked coldly.

The Senior British Officer stepped forward. Tommy could hear him quietly reply, somewhat contradictorily, "But my dear Commandant Von

Reiter, I assure you, no one is making jokes-" Von Reiter sliced his riding crop through the air, cutting off the British officer's response.

"Escape is forbidden!"

"But, commandant-" "Verboten!"

"Yes, but-" Von Reiter turned to the assembly.

"I have this day received new directives from my superiors in Berlin.

They are simple: Allied airmen attempting to escape from prisoner-of-war camps within the Reich will now be treated as terrorists and spies! Upon your capture, you will not be returned to Stalag Luft Thirteen! You will be shot on sight!"

Silence seized the assembly. It took several seconds for the Senior

British Officer to reply, and when he did, it was in a flat, cold voice.

"I would warn Herr Oberst that what you suggest is a direct violation of the Geneva Convention, of which Germany is a signatory. Such treatment of escaping Allied personnel would constitute a war crime, and anyone engaging in such behavior will eventually find himself facing, a firing squad. Or a hangman's noose, Herr Oberst. That, I can promise!"

Von Reiter turned to the British officer.

"I have my orders!" he answered briskly.

"Legal orders! And do not speak to me, wing commander, of war crimes!

For it is not the Luftwaffe that nightly drops incendiaries and delayed-fuse bombs upon cities filled with noncombatants! Cities filled with women, children, and the elderly! Expressly against your beloved Geneva Convention rules!"

As he spoke, Von Reiter glanced over at Hauptmann Visser, who nodded, and instantly barked out a command to the men guarding the British fliers who'd been involved in the escape attempt. The Germans immediately chambered rounds in their rifles, or manipulated the firing bolt on the Schmeisser machine pistols they carried. These made a distinctively evil clicking sound. The squad encircling the British officers raised their weapons into firing positions.

For several long seconds there was utter quiet on the parade ground.

His face suddenly pale, drawn tight, the Senior British Officer stepped forward sharply into the silence.

"Are you threatening a massacre of unarmed men?" he shouted. His voice abruptly turned high-pitched, almost girlish with fear and near-frenzy. There was more than a tinge of panic in each word he spoke.

Von Reiter, still red-faced but with the irritating coolness that superiority of firepower brings, turned to the British officer.

"I am well within my rights, wing commander. And I am merely following direct orders. From the highest levels in Berlin. To disobey would result in perhaps my own firing squad."

The SBO stepped closer to the German.

"Sir!" he shouted.

"We are all here as witnesses! If you murder these men…"

Von Reiter glared at the Englishman.

"Murder? Murder!

You dare talk to me of murder! With your firebomb attacks upon unarmed civilians! Terrorfliegers!"

"You will hang, Von Reiter, if you give the order to fire! I'll fashion the bloody noose myself!"

Von Reiter took a deep breath, calming himself. He eyed the SBO with irritation. Then he smiled cruelly.

"You, wing commander, are the officer in charge. This foolish escape attempt today is your responsibility. Will you offer yourself to the firing squad, in return for the lives of these men?"

The Senior British Officer's jaw dropped in astonishment and he did not immediately reply.

"It would seem a most fair trade, wing commander. One man's life to save the lives of two dozen."

"What you're suggesting is a crime," the officer answered.

Von Reiter shrugged.

"War is a crime," he said briskly.

"I am merely asking you for a decision officers make frequently.

Will you sacrifice one man for the good of many? Yourself?

Quickly, wing commander! Your decision!"

The camp commandant lifted his riding crop in the air, as if about to give the command to open fire.

The rows of British airmen seemed to stiffen, then waver, as if rage like a wind passed down each line. Voices started to rise, angrily. In one of the nearby guard towers a machine gun pivoted on its base, making a creaking sound as it was brought to bear on the assembly.

The two dozen would-be escapees seemed to shrink together.

Where they had worn boisterous smiles and wide grins as they emerged from interrogation, now they had paled, staring out at the weapons that covered them.

"Commandant!" the Senior British Officer shouted hoarsely.

"Don't do something you might later regret!"

Von Reiter eyed the officer carefully.

"Regret? Regret killing the enemy that is doing such a fine job of killing my own people? Where should I find something in that to regret?"

"I'm warning you!" the officer cried out.

"I'm still awaiting your decision, wing commander! Will you take their places?"

Tommy stole a look at Heinrich Visser. The German could do little to hide his pleasure.

"I think they're going to do it," whispered the actor standing next to him.

"Damn it, I think they are!"

"No, they're bluffing," said the chess master.

"Are you certain?" Tommy asked, under his breath.

"No," the chess master replied quietly.

"Not at all."

"They're going to do it," repeated the actor.

"They're really going to do it! I heard they shot men that escaped from one of the other camps. Fifty Brits, I heard. Went out through a tunnel, were on the lam for weeks. Executed as spies. I didn't believe it, but now…"

Von Reiter paused, letting the tension build in the air around him. The goons with their fingers on the triggers of their weapons waited for a command, while the assembled British airmen stood rock-still, in terror at what seemed about to unfold.

"All right, commandant!" the Senior British Officer said loudly.

"I'll take their place!"

The camp commandant turned slowly, lowering his riding crop languorously. He placed one hand upon a black-sheathed ceremonial dagger that he wore in the belt of his dress uniform.

Tommy caught sight of this gesture, and looked intently at the ceremonial weapon. Then he saw that Von Reiter's other hand had begun to swish the riding crop around his polished, glistening black leather boots.

"Ah," he said slowly.

"A brave but foolish decision." Von Reiter paused, as if savoring the moment.

"But in this instance, it will not be necessary," he said to the Senior

British Officer, but before the man could raise his voice in protest again, Von Reiter pivoted and shouted out to Heinrich Visser:

"Hauptmann! Each man who tried to escape from the shower building, fifteen days in the cooler! Bread and water only!"

Fear like a sudden wind seemed to ooze from the huddled men. One man sobbed out loud. Another gripped the arm of his neighbor, his knees wobbly, supporting himself. A third swore angrily, shaking a fist at the German officer, challenging him to fight.

Then the commandant turned back to the SBO.

"Now you have been warned!" he said angrily.

"We will not let anyone else who tries to escape off so lightly!" He raised his voice again, addressing the entire gathering of Allied airmen.

"The next man who is caught outside the wire will be shot'. On that you have my promise! Let there be no confusion on this account.

There has never been a successful escape from this camp, and there will not be! This is your home for the duration of the war. The Reich will not expend valuable military resources hunting down escaping Allied airmen! This is the limit of the resources we will spend."

As he spoke, Von Reiter unbuttoned the breast pocket flap of his steel-gray dress uniform jacket, and reached inside. He removed a single thin rifle cartridge, which he held up for the entire assembly to see. After a moment, he turned and flipped the cartridge to the Senior British Officer.

"As a reminder," he said sharply.

"And, of course, there will be no more shower privileges for the

British compound for the next fortnight, either."

With that, the camp commandant made a gesture of dismissal at the gathered men, turned on his heel, and, accompanied by the other German officers and guards, exited the camp. Tommy Hart caught sight of the grin Heinrich Visser wore. He also saw that the Hauptmann had seen him, standing to the side.

"I thought they were gonna do it, for sure," whispered the actor from New York.

"Jesus, that was damn close."

"No shit," said the chess master.

"Absolutely no shit."

Then the chess player added another question.

"Hey, you guys think MacNamara and Clark over on our side know about that directive? The shoot-to-kill order? You think maybe that was some kinda elaborate Kraut bluff? Maybe trying to scare us?"

"Well, it sure worked," said the actor, blowing out a long breath of pent-up air.

"I don't think it was any bluff. But I'll tell you this: MacNamara and

Clark, they know about those orders.

For sure. The thing is, they don't care-not one little bit."

"It's a war, remember?" Tommy said.

The two other men grunted in assent.

Phillip Pryce was tending to a battered steel kettle, boiling water for tea, and Hugh Renaday had gone off to try to discover what had happened in the escape attempt. Pryce fussed about the stove, not unlike some elderly crone. Tommy could just make out the muffled sounds of a quartet of voices, singing popular songs a cappella in another bunk room. The whistle of the kettle seemed to blend with the ghostly voices, and for an instant. Tommy looked around and thought the world had returned to some sort of reasoned normalcy.

"We were making some progress, I think," he said to Pryce. The older man nodded.

"Tommy, lad, it seems to me that there is much to be suspicious about and little time remaining in which to investigate the truth. At zero eight hundred on Monday you will be expected to begin fighting on Mr. Scott's behalf. Have you considered what will be your opening gambit?"

"Not yet."

"It might be wise to start."

"There's still so much we don't know."

Pryce paused, hovering over the tea cups.

"Do you know what bothers me. Tommy, about this case?"

"I'm listening."

The older man seemed to take his time with every action.

He examined the worn tea leaves in the bottom of each ceramic cup carefully. He lifted the water kettle gingerly from the stove. He breathed in some of the steamy vapors that smoked from the opening.

"It is the sense that there is something here that is different from what it appears."

"Phillip, please explain."

He shook his head.

"I am getting too old and too frail for all this," he said, grinning.

"I think it is a medically proven fact that the older one gets, the more quick one is to spot conspiracies.

Skullduggery. Cloak and dagger stuff. Sherlock Holmes wasn't a young man, now, was he?"

"Well, he wasn't an old guy. Dr. Watson was. Holmes was in his thirties, maybe?"

"Quite so, quite so. And he would be suspicious, would he not? I mean, this is all so straightforward, from the prosecution's point of view. Two men hate each other. Race is the reason. One man dies. The survivor must be guilty of the murder. Quod erat demonstrandum. Or ipso facto. Some fancy latinate construction to define the situation.

But none of it seems in the slightest bit clear to me."

"I would agree, but it seems there isn't much time left for exploring."

"I wonder," Pryce said with a lifted eyebrow, "whether or not that is part of the design."

Tommy was about to respond when he heard the heavy tread of Hugh's flight boots coming down the hut's central corridor. Seconds later the door burst open, and the Canadian rushed into the room. He was grinning widely.

"Do you know what those clever bastards tried to pull off?" he almost shouted. There was a schoolboy's delight creeping into his every word.

"What was it?" Tommy asked.

"Well, get this: The same group had been heading off to the shower building every day, same hour, same minute, for nearly two weeks, rain or shine, bellowing all those songs out, the ones that get that old sod Von Reiter so upset…"

"Yes. I passed them on the way in," Tommy said.

"Well, you did indeed, Tommy, my friend, but today they were ten minutes earlier than usual. And the two goons escorting them? They were two of our guys in overcoats cut and dyed to look like the Krauts!

They marched into the shower and half the gang undresses and starts singing away, just as usual. The other half leap into their clothes and come waltzing straight out, where the two phony guards put them into formation and start walking them toward the woods…"

"Hoping no one notices a damn thing!" Pryce burst out with a laugh.

"Precisely," Hugh continued.

"And they might have made it, too, if some damn ferret isn't coming down the road on a bicycle. He notices that the 'goons' aren't carrying weapons, and he stops, the men break for the woods, and the game is up!"

Hugh shook his head.

"Damn clever. Almost pulled it off, as well."

The men all laughed together. It seemed marvelously preposterous for an escape attempt, yet fabulously creative.

"I don't think they'd have gotten far," Pryce said, between coughs.

"After all, their uniforms would have given them away."

"Well, not precisely, Phillip," Hugh said.

"Three of the men-the true authors of the scheme, so I gather-had civilian clothing underneath their uniforms, which they planned to shed in the forest. They also had excellent forged papers. Or so I'm told.

They were the ones who were supposed to make it out. The others were mainly to cause some trouble and consternation for the Krauts."

"I wonder," Tommy asked slowly, "if anyone had known of this new order that allegedly allows for the shooting of prisoners, whether they would have volunteered for a diversion so readily."

"You're dead on, there, Tommy," Hugh answered.

"It's one thing to muck around with the Krauts if all it's going to cost you is a fortnight in the cooler singing 'roll out the barrel…" and shivering through the night. A whole different thing if the bastards are going to put you in front of a firing squad. You think it was some sort of bluff? I can't believe…"

"Yeah, you're right," Tommy said with a brisk confidence that was perhaps ill-placed.

"They can't go around shooting prisoners of war. Why, there would be hell to pay."

Pryce shook his head and held up his hand, cutting off the conversation.

"A prisoner of war is supposed to be in uniform, and he's supposed to provide his name, rank, and serial number, when demanded. A man in a suit of clothes carrying phony identity cards and forged work permits?

That man could easily be taken for a spy. When do you stop being the one and start being the other?"

Pryce took a deep breath.

"We shoot spies. Without any due process. And so do the Germans."

He looked closely at the two airmen and nodded his head slowly.

"I have no doubt that Von Reiter will do precisely that, in the future," he said.

"I believe our lads, clever as they might have been, were in serious jeopardy there for several minutes. Jeopardy they might not have foreseen. Von Reiter may not be some brown-shirted fanatic Nazi, but he surely is a German officer, through and through. There's probably generations of stiffly Teutonic service to the fatherland running in his quite cold veins. Give Von Reiter a direct and unambiguous order, and he'll follow it to the letter. Without question."

"That is," Tommy interrupted, "if he actually did receive such an order. He could have just been blowing smoke."

Hugh nodded.

"Tommy's got a point, Phillip."

Pryce smiled.

"Tommy, it seems to me that you're learning subtlety rapidly. Of course, it makes little difference to us whether he received that order or not as long as we stay put, right here in our delightful accommodations. But the threat of shooting… well, that's real enough, isn't it? And so Von Reiter achieves much of what he desires merely by raising the ugly possibility of firing squads. The only way to test the truth is to escape…"

"And be caught," Tommy finished the sentence.

Pryce sighed.

"Von Reiter is a clever man. Do not underestimate him just because he looks like some Saturday morning puppet show character in those clothes of his." The onetime barrister coughed again, and added, "A cruel man, I think. Cruel and ambitious. Traits he shares, I suppose, with that slimy weasel Visser. A dangerous concoction, that…"

As he spoke, all three men became aware of the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor. Boots hitting the wooden planks with precision.

"Goons!" Hugh muttered.

Before the two others had time to respond, the door to the small bunk room flew open, revealing Heinrich Visser. Behind him stood a dwarfish man, paunchy and barely over five feet in height, wearing a poorly cut black business suit, holding in his hands a black homburg hat that he nervously fondled. The man peered out into the room from behind thick glasses. Standing just to the rear were four heavyset German soldiers, each with a weapon held at the ready. Within seconds of their arrival, the corridor behind them filled with curious British airmen torn from the casino of mouse roulette by the appearance of the armed men.

Visser stepped into the narrow bunk room, eyeing the three men.

"Ah, perhaps we are engaged in a strategy session? A critical discussion of the facts and the law, wing commander?"

Visser addressed his question to Pryce.

"Tommy has much work to do, and little time remaining.

We were lending him what expertise our experience allows.

This should not come as much of a surprise to you, Hauptmann," Pryce replied.

Visser shook his head slowly. He fingered his chin with his sole hand, as if thinking.

"And do you make progress, wing commander? Does the defense of Lieutenant Scott begin to take shape?"

"We have little time, and so we raise questions. We are still seeking answers," Pryce responded.

"Ah, such is the lot of any true philosopher," Visser said, musing.

"And you, Mr. Renaday, with your policeman's heart, have you found any hard facts that assist you in this search?"

Hugh scowled at the German. He gestured around the room.

"These walls are facts," he said contemptuously.

"The wire is a fact. The machine-gun towers are facts. Beyond that, I haven't much to say to you, Hauptmann" Visser smiled, ignoring the insult contained in the words and tones of the Canadian's response.

Tommy did not like the fact that Visser seemed oblivious to insult.

There was a dangerousness in the officer's mocking smile.

"And you, Mr. Hart, have you come to rely greatly on Mr. Pryce?"

Tommy hesitated, unable to see where the German was heading with his questions.

"I welcome his analysis," he responded carefully.

"It is comforting to have such an expert at your side, no? A famous barrister, when your own expertise in these type of matters is so unfortunately limited?" Visser persisted.

"Yes, it is."

The German grinned. Pryce coughed twice, holding his hand over his mouth. Visser pivoted toward the old man, as if drawn to the sound.

"Your health, wing commander, it improves?"

"Not bloody likely in this rat hole," Hugh muttered ferociously.

Pryce shot a quick glance at his blustering Canadian companion, then replied, "My health is fine, Hauptmann. My cough lingers, as you can readily see. But my strength is fine, and I eagerly look forward to the remaining time I have here, before my countrymen arrive one fine day at the front gates and then proceed to shoot the bloody lot of you."

Visser laughed as if what Pryce had said was somehow a joke.

"Spoken like a warrior," he said, continuing to grin.

"But I fear, wing commander, that your bravery masks your illness. Your stoicism in the face of such sickness is admirable."

He stared at Pryce, the smile fading into a chilling, deep look that spoke of great hatred whirling around within him, not so much hidden as encapsulated.

"Yes," Visser continued slowly, nastily, "I fear you are more sick than you are willing to let on to your comrades. Far more sick."

"I'm fine," Pryce repeated.

Visser shook his head.

"I think not, wing commander. I think not. Regardless, allow me to introduce my companion to you: This gentleman is Herr Blucher of the

Swiss Red Cross…"

Visser turned to the diminutive man, who nodded toward the prisoners and clicked his heels together, simultaneously making a small bow.

"Herr Blucher…" Visser continued, smugness creeping into his voice,

"has arrived this very day directly from Berlin, where he is a member of the Swiss legation there."

"What the bloody hell…" Pryce started, but then he stopped, fixing the German with a cold look of his own.

"It is against the interests of the Luftwaffe High Command to have a distinguished and justly famed barrister such as yourself perish here amid the rough and deprived life of prisoners of war. We are concerned with your persistent illnesses, wing commander, and alas, because we lack the proper medical facilities for treatment, it has been decided by the highest authorities that you are to be repatriated. Good news,

Mr. Pryce. You are going home."

The word home seemed to echo in sudden silence.

Pryce stood stock-still in the center of the small room. He drew himself to attention, trying to gather some military bearing.

"I don't believe you," he said abruptly.

Visser shook his head.

"Ah, but it is true. At this very instant at a camp in Scotland, a captured German naval officer suffering from similar maladies is being informed by the Swiss representative there that he is to be returned to his homeland. It is the simplest of trades, wing commander. Our sick prisoner for their sick prisoner."

"I don't believe you," Pryce repeated.

The man identified as Herr Blucher took a single step forward.

He spoke in fractured, Germanicized English: "Is true, Mr. Pryce. I will be escorting you by train to Switzerland…"

Pryce turned sharply, staring at Herr Blucher.

"You're no bloody Swiss," he said, spitting. Then he swung about and fixed Visser with a harrowing glance.

"Lies!" he said instantly.

"Bloody lies, Visser! There's no trade! There's no exchange!"

"Ah," Visser replied, sickeningly sweetly, "but I assure you, wing commander, this is so. Even as we speak. A naval officer who will be allowed to return to the loving arms of his wife and children " "Lies!

Black lies!" Pryce interrupted, shouting.

"But Mr. Pryce, you are mistaken," Visser said unctuously.

"I thought you would be pleased at the thought of returning home."

"You lying dog!" Pryce cried. He turned to Tommy Hart and Hugh Renaday, his face a portrait of instant and complete despair.

"Phillip!" Tommy blurted out.

Pryce took an unsteady step toward Tommy, reaching out and seizing the younger man by the sleeve of his jacket, as if he was suddenly weakened.

"They mean to kill me," Pryce said softly.

Tommy shook his head, and Hugh pushed past the two of them, thrusting himself directly in Visser's face. He jabbed a blunt finger sharply into the Hauptmann's chest.

"I know you, Visser!" the Canadian hissed.

"I know your face! If you are lying to us, I will spend every second of every day of every month for the remainder of my years on this earth hunting you to the ground! You will not be able to hide, you Nazi scum, because I will be like a nightmare on your ass until I find you, and I will kill you with my own bare hands!"

The one-armed German did not shrink back. Instead, he merely stared directly into Hugh's eyes, and said slowly, "The wing commander is to gather his possessions immediately and accompany me. Herr Blucher will see to his care, while in transit."

Visser's mocking grin slid past the Canadian, back to Phillip Pryce.

"Alas, wing commander, we have no time for elaborate farewells. You are to embark immediately. Schnell! Pryce started to reply, then stopped, turning again to Tommy Hart.

"I'm sorry, Tommy. I had hoped we three would walk out the gate together as free men. That would have been ever so nice, would it not?"

"Phillip!" Tommy choked, unable to speak the words that flooded him.

"You will be fine, lads," Pryce continued.

"Stick together.

Promise me this: You will survive! No matter what happens, you boys are to live! I expect much from the both of you, and even if I'm not there to see it, as I'd hoped, that doesn't mean you shan't accomplish what you are capable of!"

Pryce's hands quivered, and there was a warble in his voice. The older man's fear filled the room.

Tommy shook his head.

"No, Phillip, no. We'll still be together and you can show me

Piccadilly, and what was that restaurant? Just like you've promised.

It will be okay, I know it."

"Ah, Simpson's on the Strand. I can taste it now. So, Tommy, you and Hugh will have to go there now without me, and raise a glass on my behalf. Nothing cheap, mind you!

Hugh, no bottle of beer! A nice red wine. Something prewar and expensive, the color of deep burgundy. Something that plays a waltz across your taste buds, and cascades down your throat. That sounds wonderful…"

"Phillip!" Tommy could barely control himself.

Pryce smiled at him, and then at Hugh, whose arm he also reached out and seized.

"Boys, promise me you'll not let them leave my carcass in the woods somewhere where the animals will gnaw on my old bones. Force them to return my ashes, and then spread them somewhere nice. Maybe over the Channel after all this is over. I think I would like that, so that the tides can wash them up on our beloved island's shore. But anywhere where it is free, boys. I don't mind dying alone, lads, but I'd like to think my remains went somewhere where they can enjoy a tiny breath of freedom-" Visser interrupted sharply.

"There is no time! Wing commander, please ready yourself!"

Pryce turned and scowled at the German.

"That's what I am doing!" he answered. He returned his eyes to his two younger companions.

"They'll shoot me in the forest," he said softly. His voice had regained some strength, and he spoke with an almost matter-of-fact sense of resignation. It was as if Pryce wasn't afraid so much as he was irritated by the thought of his imminent death.

"Tommy, lad, here's what they will tell you," he whispered.

"They'll say I attempted to flee. That I made some sort of break for freedom. There was a struggle, and they were forced to fire their weapons. It will all be a lie, of course, and you boys will know it-"

Visser interrupted again, smiling with the same upturned scowl that he wore earlier when Von Reiter was threatening to shoot the British airmen who'd tried to escape.

"A prisoner exchange," Visser said.

"Nothing more. So that the wing commander's health is not our responsibility."

"Stop lying," Pryce said arrogantly.

"No one believes you, and it makes you appear foolish."

Visser's smile faded.

"I am a German officer," he said bitterly.

"I do not lie!"

"The hell you don't," Pryce snorted.

"Your lies fill this room with a disgusting stench."

Visser took an angry step forward, then halted himself. He stared at

Phillip Pryce with unbridled hatred.

"We are leaving," he said with barely restrained ferocity.

"We are leaving now!

This minute, wing commander!"

Pryce grabbed at Tommy once again.

"Tommy," he whispered, "this is not a coincidence! Nothing is what it seems!

Dig deeper! Save him, lad, save him! For more than ever, now, I believe Scott is innocent!"

Two German soldiers stepped into the room, reaching out for Pryce, ready to drag him from the bunk room. The wiry, frail Englishman faced them down, and shrugged his shoulders at them. Then he turned to Hugh and Tommy, and said, "You're on your own now, boys. And remember, I'm counting on you to live through all this! Survive! Whatever happens!"

He turned back to the Germans.

"All right, Hauptmann," he said with a sudden, exceedingly calm determination.

"I'm ready now. Do with me what you will."

Visser nodded, signaled the squad to surround him, and without another word, Pryce was marched down the corridor and through the front door.

Tommy, Hugh, and the other British airmen of the hut raced after them, trailing after the old barrister, who marched with his shoulders stiffly back, his spine erect. He did not turn once as the odd procession crossed the assembly area. Nor did he hesitate as they passed through the gate, where steel-helmeted goons kept their weapons at the ready. Just beyond, adjacent to the commandant's barracks, there was a large, black Mercedes motorcar waiting, its engine running, a small plume of exhaust trailing from its rear pipes.

Visser grasped a door and held it open for the Englishman.

The Swiss Blucher quickly waddled around to the other side, and flung himself into the vehicle.

But Pryce paused for a single instant at the door to the motorcar, twisting around, and for a single, slow moment, stared back toward the camp, looking through the ubiquitous wire to where Tommy and Hugh stood helplessly watching his disappearance. Tommy saw him smile sadly, and raise his hand and make a small farewell wave, as if he were gesturing toward the waiting heavens, and then he gave a quick thumbs-up, and in the same motion, reached up and doffed his cap to all the British airmen gathered by the wire, with all the bravado of a man unafraid of any death, no matter how rough or lonely. Several of the airmen raised their voices to cheer, but this noise was cut short when one of the guards pushed Pryce roughly down into the backseat, and he disappeared from view.

With a roar, the car's engine accelerated. The tires spun in the dirt.

Raising a dust cloud behind and bouncing slightly on the rough roadway, it headed off in the direction of the line of tall trees and the forest.

Visser, too, watched the car depart. Then, the one-armed German turned slowly, victoriously, his face wearing a laugh that spoke of success.

He stared across toward Tommy and Hugh for several seconds, before he sharply turned on his heel and marched into the office building. The wooden door clacked shut behind him.

Tommy waited. A sudden, abrupt silence enclosed him and inwardly he filled with resignation and rage, unsure which emotion would gain prominence. He half-expected to hear a single cracking pistol report rising from the woods.

"Bloody hell," Hugh said softly after a few moments had passed. Tommy half-pivoted and saw there were tears streaming down the hulking

Canadian's cheeks, and then realized that the same was true of his own.

"We're on our own, now, Yank," Hugh added.

"Bloody fucking war. Bloody fucking goddamn fucking bloody fucking war. Why does everyone who's worth more than half a damn on this sodden earth have to die?" Hugh's voice cracked hard once, filled with an unrelenting sadness.

Tommy, who did not trust his own voice at that moment in the slightest, did not reply. He recognized, too, that he had absolutely no answer to this question.

Tommy trudged through the lengthening afternoon shadows, feeling the first intimations of the evening's chill fight past the remaining sunlight. He tried to force himself to think of home instead of

Phillip Pryce, tried to imagine Vermont in the early spring. He thought it was such a time of promise and expectation, after the harshness of winter. Each crocus that pushed itself through the damp and muddy soil, each bud that struggled to burst on the tip of its tree branch, held out hope.

In the spring, the rivers choked with the runoff from melting winter snows, and he remembered that Lydia especially had liked to bicycle to the edge of the Battenkill, or to a narrow slot on the Mettawee, both places that he would later work hard for rising trout in the summer evenings, and watch as white frothy water burst and bur bled and battled its way over the rocks. There was something invigorating in watching the sinuous muscularity of the water then; it had a life to it that spoke of better days to come.

He shook his head, sighing, the images of his home state distant and elusive. Almost every kriegie had some vision of home that they could rely upon, to conjure up in moments of despair and loneliness, a fantasy of the way things could be, if only they survived. But these familiar daydreams seemed suddenly unreachable to Tommy.

He stopped once, in the center of the assembly yard, and said out loud: "He's dead by now." He could envision Pryce's body lying prone in the woods, the false Swiss Blucher standing above him with his Luger pistol still smoking. Not since the moment he'd seen the Lovely Lydia slide beneath the Mediterranean waves, leaving him bobbing in his life vest alone on the surface of the sea, had he felt so utterly abandoned.

What he wanted to imagine was his home, his girl, and his future, but all that he could see were the dreary barracks of Stalag Luft Thirteen, the ever-present wire encircling him, and the recognition that his nightmares would now include a new ghost.

He smiled, for a moment, at the irony. In his imagination, he introduced his old captain from West Texas to Phillip Pryce. It was the only way, he thought right then, that he could prevent himself from breaking down and crying.

He thought that Phillip would be stiff and formal, at first, while the captain from West Texas would be gregarious, a little overblown, but engaging all the same with his boyishness and enthusiasm. He envisioned the two shaking hands and thought that it would probably take them both a short time to come to understand each other Phillip, of course, would complain that they spoke utterly different languages but that they would find much in each other to like, and it would not be long before they would be telling jokes and slapping one another on the back, instantly the best of friends.

As he rounded the corner, heading toward Hut 101, Tommy imagined the initial conversation between the two ghosts. It would have some hilarity to it, he thought, before the two dead men realized how much they had in common on this earth. He smiled briefly, bittersweet, not a smile that spoke of any lessening of the troubled sensation dogging him, but a smile that had at least a small amount of release within it.

It was right at that moment that he heard the first raised angry voice.

The anger was deep, impatient, and insistent, a cascade of fury and obscenities. And it took him no more than another second or two to recognize whose voice it was that was shouting although he couldn't quite make out all the words that were being bellowed.

He broke into a run, sprinting around the front of the barracks, and as the entranceway to Hut 101 came into view, he saw Lincoln Scott standing on the top step to the hut. In front of him were seventy-five to a hundred milling kriegies, all staring up at the black flier in a jostling, unsteady silence.

Scott's face was contorted with anger. He jabbed a finger into the air above the other airmen.

"You are cowards!" he shouted.

"Every last one of you!

Cowards and cheats!"

Tommy didn't hesitate. He raced forward.

Scott's hand melded into a fist, which he waved in the air.

"I will fight any one of you. Any five of you! Hell, I'll fight you all, you cowards! Come on! Who's gonna be first!"

Scott squared his shoulders, assuming a fighting stance.

Tommy could see his eyes racheting from man to man, ready.

"Cowards!" the black flier cried out again.

"Come on, who wants a piece of me?"

The mass of men seemed to seethe, shifting back and forth, like the water in a pot right before it begins to boil up.

"Fucking nigger!" a voice called out, indistinguishable from the packed mass of men. Scott pivoted to the sound of the words.

"This nigger's ready. Are you? Come on, goddamn it!

Who's gonna be first?"

"Screw you, killer! You're gonna get yours from a Kraut firing squad!"

"Is that so?" Scott replied, his fists still clenched in front of him, his body twisting toward the sound of each catcall.

"What, you aren't man enough to try me on? Gonna let the Krauts do your dirty work for you? Chickens!" He squawked out mockingly, a rooster sound.

"Come on," he challenged the crowd again.

"Why wait? Why not try and take a piece of me now! Or aren't you men enough?"

The crowd surged forward, and Scott once again bent over slightly, like a boxer preparing for the inevitable jab to come flying his way, but readying the right cross counterpunch as a reply. A deadly reply. A boxing axiom: You must take one to give one, and Scott seemed utterly prepared for that tradeoff.

Tommy reached down and summoned the deepest, most authoritative voice he could manage, and from the back of the mob, suddenly shouted out:

"What the hell is going on!"

Scott stiffened slightly when he recognized Tommy's presence.

He didn't answer, but remained in a fighting stance, facing the crowd.

"What's going on?" Tommy demanded again. Like a swimmer working through a heavy surf, he pushed his way through the center of the crowd of white airmen. There were several faces he recognized; men who were scheduled to testify at the trial, men who had been Trader Vic's roommates and friends, the leader of the jazz band and a few of his companions, who had threatened him in the corridor the previous day.

These were the faces of the angriest men, and he suspected that the men who'd threatened him in his bed were there in that crowd. Only he recognized that he didn't have time to scrutinize every face.

The crowd parted reluctantly to let him pass, and he paused at the first step to Hut 101, turning and facing the men. Lincoln Scott hovered just behind him.

"What is going on?" he asked again.

"Ask the nigger," a voice from the mob answered.

"He's the one that wants to fight."

Tommy did not turn to Scott, but instead slid his body between the front row of the crowd and where the black airman was perched. He pointed directly at the man who'd spoken.

"I'm asking you," he said briskly.

There was a momentary hesitation, then the man answered, "Well, I guess your boy there doesn't cotton to some of the local artwork…"

Several men started to laugh.

"And because he ain't much of an art critic, well, he comes storming out of the hut there, challenging each and every one out here just minding their own business to a fight. Damn, he looks right ready to have it out, one by one, with just about everyone in this damn camp, excepting maybe you. Hart. But the rest of us, well, he looks like he wants a piece of every flier here."

Before Tommy could respond, another voice came bellowing from perhaps fifty yards away.

"Attention!"

The kriegies pivoted and saw Colonel Lewis MacNamara and Major Clark rapidly striding toward the gathering. Captain Walker Townsend hovered just behind them, pausing at the periphery to watch. At almost the same moment, a squad of German guards, perhaps a half-dozen men, trotted into view, coming around the same corner from the assembly yard that Tommy had passed seconds earlier. They carried rifles and were marching double-time, their boots slapping the dry camp dirt. They were being led by Hauptmann Visser.

The Germans and the two senior American officers arrived at the front of Hut 101 at almost the same moment. The Germans assumed guarded positions, rifles at the half-ready, while Visser stood forward of the squad. The kriegies all snapped to attention, standing ramrod straight in their positions.

MacNamara moved through the crowd slowly, as quiet grew around him, examining the face of each airman. It was as if the SAO were imprinting the name and identity of each man in the mob on his memory.

Visser remained halted a few feet back, waiting to see what MacNamara would do. The SAO moved with an angry deliberateness, like an officer conducting an inspection of a particularly slovenly unit. His face was red, his temper clearly ready to burst forth, but the angrier he looked, the more calculated his every motion became.

It took him several minutes to reach the steps to Hut 101, where he looked first at Tommy, fixing him with a long, rigid glance, then at

Scott, then finally back to Tommy.

"All right," he said quietly, in a voice that belied his rage, "Hart, please explain. What the hell is going on here?"

Tommy saluted sharply, and replied: "I only just arrived moments ago, sir. I was seeking to ascertain the same answer."

MacNamara nodded.

"I see," he said slowly, although he clearly did not see.

"Then perhaps Lieutenant Scott can take this opportunity to enlighten me."

Scott, too, saluted sharply. He hesitated, as if gathering his words, then replied: "Sir. I was challenging these men to a fight, sir."

"A fight?" MacNamara asked.

"All of them?"

"Yes sir. As many as was necessary. Some of them. All of them. It did not make a difference to me. Sir."

MacNamara shook his head.

"Why would you do this, lieutenant?"

"My door, sir."

"Your door? What about your door, lieutenant?"

Scott paused. He took a deep breath.

' "See for yourself, colonel," he replied.

MacNamara started to respond, then stopped.

"Very well," he said. He took a step forward, only to hear Heinrich Visser's voice.

"I think, colonel, that I shall accompany you."

The German was making his way through the crowd of men, which parted swiftly to allow him to pass. Visser mounted the steps, nodding toward

MacNamara.

"Please," he gestured to Scott, "show us what it is that would prompt a man to attempt to battle such uneven odds."

Scott eyed the German with disdain.

"A fight is a fight, Hauptmann. Sometimes the odds are completely irrelevant to the cause of the fight."

Visser smiled.

"A brave man's concept, lieutenant. Not a pragmatic man's."

MacNamara interrupted sharply.

"Scott, lead the way.

Now, if you please!"

Tommy was the last through the double doors into Hut 101.

The uneven tread of the men echoed in the barracks as they traveled down to the last door, which marked Scott's quarters.

There they paused, staring at the wooden exterior.

In large, deep knife strokes, someone had carved: die NIGGER KKK.

"Not even very grammatical," Lincoln Scott said sourly.

Visser stepped forward, removed a black leather glove from his sole hand, and then slowly ran the tip of his finger over the words, outlining each. He did not speak, and carefully, using his teeth, tugged the glove back into place.

MacNamara's face was marred by a scowl. He turned to Scott.

"Do you have any idea, lieutenant, specifically, who placed these words on your door?"

Scott shook his head.

"I left my room only to go and use the Abort. I was not gone for more than a few minutes. When I returned, the message was there."

"And you thought to take on everyone in sight?" MacNamara asked, still harnessing the fury that leeched onto the edge of each word.

"Although you had no real idea who carved the words here when your back was turned."

Scott hesitated, then nodded.

"Yes sir," he said.

"Precisely."

Behind them, they all suddenly heard the sound of the doors to Hut 101 swinging open, and heavy footsteps in the corridor. All the men gathered in front of Scott's room pivoted, and saw that Commandant Von

Reiter was marching directly toward them. He was accompanied by two junior-grade officers, both of whom kept their hands nervously on the holsters of their pistols. Behind them, trying to remain inconspicuous, but still eager to see, was Fritz Number One. As he had been only a few hours before, Von Reiter was in his dress uniform.

The camp commandant pushed forward and halted a few feet away from the door. For a long, silent moment, he stared at the words, then he turned to MacNamara, as if seeking an explanation.

MacNamara didn't hesitate.

Pointing a finger directly at the commandant, he spoke briskly and harshly.

"This, Herr Oberst, is precisely what I warned you about! Had it not been for the arrival of Lieutenant Hart and myself, we might have had a riot on our hands!"

MacNamara pivoted toward Scott.

"Lieutenant, while I can understand your rage " "Begging the colonel's pardon, but I don't think you can, sir " Scott started to reply.

MacNamara raised a hand, shutting him off.

"We have due process. We have a procedure! We must adhere to regulations! I will not have a riot! I will not allow a lynching! And

I will not allow you to be goaded into a fight!"

He switched back instantly to Von Reiter.

"I warned you, commandant, that this situation is dangerous. I'm warning you again!"

Von Reiter hissed his reply, equally furious: "You must control your own men. Colonel MacNamara! Or else I will be forced to extreme measures!"

The two men glared at each other. Then, abruptly, MacNamara turned to Tommy.

"We will proceed at zero eight hundred on Monday! And this" he pivoted back to Von Reiter "I want a new door on this room within the hour!

Understand?"

Von Reiter started to reply, then paused, and nodded. He rapidly spoke a few words in German to one of the adjutants, who clicked his heels together, saluted, and hurried down the corridor.

The German commandant said, "Yes. This will be seen to. You, colonel, will take steps to remove the mob outside.

Correct?"

MacNamara nodded.

"It will be taken care of."

The Senior American Officer paused, then added ominously, "But the

Oberst can see for himself the threats we are all under. Trouble is likely."

"You will control your men!" Von Reiter said sharply.

"I will do that which is within my power," MacNamara answered stiffly.

Tommy had a sudden thought, and he stepped quickly forward.

"Sir!" he said sharply.

"I think it would be appropriate if Lieutenant Scott had the benefit of his counsel around the clock. I am willing to move into his room with him." Then he turned to the German officer, and added, "And I can think of no better bodyguard than Flying' Officer Renaday. I would like permission for him to move from the British compound into this bunk room for the duration of the trial."

Von Reiter thought momentarily, then shrugged.

"If you so desire, and there are no objections from your commanding officer…"

MacNamara shook his head.

"Probably a good idea," he said.

"Hauptmann Visser will see to the transfer," Von Reiter ordered.

"Yes," Tommy said, staring, with unbridled animosity, at the one-armed

German.

"He's good at transfers." He thought, right at that second, that if there were a way to kill Visser, he would gladly have done it, because all he could see in his mind's eye was the forlorn face of Phillip Pryce as he was forced into the backseat of the car that took him to what Tommy believed was a swift and lonely death.

Von Reiter took a long measurement of the anger he saw between Tommy and Visser, nodding his head.

"All right," he said to MacNamara.

"Dismiss the men. It is nearly time for the evening Appell regardless."

The Germans then all turned and marched down the corridor.

MacNamara took a second to turn to Tommy Hart and Lincoln Scott.

"Lieutenant Scott, you have my apologies," MacNamara said stiffly.

"There's nothing more I can say."

Scott nodded, and then saluted.

"Thank you, sir," he said, endowing the words with as few thanks as possible.

Then the Senior American Officer turned and followed the Germans down the corridor. For a moment. Tommy and Lincoln Scott remained in the hallway.

"Would you have fought them?" Tommy asked.

"Yes," Scott replied brusquely.

"Of course."

"And don't you think that's precisely what they wanted?"

Tommy continued.

"Yes, you're probably right about that, too," Scott conceded.

"But what choice did I have?"

Tommy didn't answer this, because he didn't see any alternative.

What he said instead was: "I think it would be a good idea if we stopped doing precisely what everyone who hates you expects you to do."

Scott opened his mouth to answer, then hesitated, pausing over his words. Then he nodded.

"You make a salient point, Hart. I agree."

Scott stood beside the door to the bunk room, and ushered Tommy inside.

"I appreciate your offer," he said.

"But I can-" Tommy cut him off.

"I can put a bunk over against the wall, and Hugh should stay closest to the door. In case there are any others who might want to try something in the night. There aren't too many who would be willing to fight their way through him to get to you."

Scott again started to speak, stopped, and then nodded.

"Thank you," he said. Tommy smiled. He guessed that this was the first time he'd heard the black airman use those words with any significant degree of sincerity. He pointed at the wall where he intended to move his bunk.

"I'll just get my stuff," he said, and then he paused.

A sudden, nasty fear slid through him.

Tommy's eyes raced around the room, searching the spare and sparse area.

"What is it?" Scott asked, suddenly alarmed by the look on Tommy's face.

"The board. The board with Vic's blood on it. That proves he was killed outside the Abort, then moved there. That I left here with you earlier…"

Tommy spun about, searching.

"Where the hell is it?"

Scott turned to the farthest corner.

"I set it right there," he said slowly.

"It was there when I left to go to the Abort."

But both men could see that the board had disappeared.