Hart’s War

Chapter Eleven

One of the camp's least efficient ferrets had already counted the formation of airmen three times, and when he started in again, going down the five-deep rows with his monotonous eins, zwei, drei, he was met with the usual catcalls, insults, and general groaning from the assembled kriegies. Men stomped their feet against the damp, chilly morning air, made nastier by a stiff breeze slicing in from the north.

The sky overhead was a slate gray marred with a pair of pinkish-red streaks on the eastern horizon, more of the indecisiveness of the German weather that seemed to be forever trapped between winter and spring. Tommy hunched his shoulders against the wind, shivering slightly in the weak light in the hour just past dawn, wondering where the prior day's warmth had fled to and still filled with doubt about the gathering set for eight a.m. Just to his right, Hugh shuffled to get his circulation going and swore at the ferret, "Get it right this time, yah bloody idiot!" while to his left, Lincoln Scott stood motionless, as if unaffected by the cold and wet. Some moisture glistened on the black flier's cheeks, making it appear almost as if he'd been crying.

The ferret hesitated, staring down at a notepad, on which he was listing numbers. This act of doubt, signaling that he might start over for a fifth time, brought a cascade of obscenities and useless threats from the Allied prisoners. Even Tommy, who usually kept quiet during all these small insults of assembly, muttered to himself a quick, "Come on, Jesus, get on with it…" as a sharp sword of wind sliced through his battered old leather flight jacket.

But he stopped when he heard the voice directly behind him speaking softly, yet insistently: "Hart? Maybe I got something for you."

He steeled himself, not turning, half expecting an insult.

The voice seemed familiar, and after a moment, he recognized that it came from a captain from New York who lived in one of the bunk rooms across the hall from him. The captain was a fighter pilot, like Scott, who'd been shot down while escorting B-17s in a raid over Big B, which was Allied airmen's slang for Berlin.

"You still looking for information. Hart? Or you got everything under control?"

Tommy shook his head, but didn't turn back toward the man in formation behind him. Both Lincoln Scott and Hugh Renaday remained still, as well.

"I'm listening," Tommy said.

"What is it you want to say?"

"Kinda pissed me off, you know," the pilot continued, "the way Bedford always had whatever anyone needed. More food. More clothes. More of everything. Need this, he had it.

Need that? He had that, too. And always got more for whatever it was than you wanted to give up. Didn't seem hardly fair. Everybody in the bag supposed to have it more or less the same, but it sure weren't the same for Trader Vic."

"I'm aware. Sometimes seemed like he was the only kriegie in this place never losing weight," Tommy responded.

The man muttered a grunt in agreement.

"Hey," the captain said, "of course, on the other hand, he sure didn't end up the same neither."

Tommy nodded. This was true, but, of course, there was no guarantee that they all wouldn't end up just as dead as Vincent Bedford. He didn't say this out loud, though he knew it was never far from any airman's waking thoughts, and certainly featured in many kriegies' dreams. It was one of the prisoner-of-war camp credos: Don't speak of what truly frightens you, for that will surely come to pass.

"No kidding," Tommy said.

"But you've got something you want to tell me?"

From the adjacent formation on Tommy's right, there was a scattering of angry shouts and complaints. Tommy figured the ferret counting that group had messed up again, as well.

The New Yorker hesitated again, as if reconsidering what he was about to say. Then he grunted an obscenity or two, indicating that whatever internal argument he'd had, had been resolved, and he said, "Vic made a couple of trades, right before his death, that got my attention. Not just my attention, hell, a couple of other guys, too, noticed that Vic was being real busy. I mean, more busy than normal, and normal he was busy all the time, if you follow my drift."

"Keep talking," Tommy said quietly.

The fighter pilot snorted, as if finding the memory distasteful.

"One of the things he got, man, I only saw it just the one time, but I remember thinking who the hell wanted that? I figured had to be some heavy-duty souvenir, yah know, but it sure was an unusual one, 'cause if the Krauts ever found it during one of their goddamn hut searches, well, anyone would know there'd be hell to pay, so I couldn't see getting it, myself, but…"

"What are you talking about?" Tommy asked, probably more sharply than necessary, but still speaking under his breath.

The captain from New York paused again, then replied: "It was a knife.

Like, a special knife. Like the type that Von Reiter wears when he's got his fanciest gotta go meet the bosses uniform on."

"Like a dagger? Real thin and long?"

"That's the type. This was SS super special, too. I saw it had one of those death's head skulls on the handle. Very Nazi.

The real deal. Probably only get that for doing something real wonderful for the fatherland, yah know. Like burning books or maybe beating up on women and kids, or shooting unarmed Russians. Anyway, I couldn't see it as a souvenir. No sir. Get caught with that in your kit, and the Krauts were likely to slam your butt into the cooler for a fortnight. They take that ceremonial stuff pretty seriously. Krauts got no sense of humor whatsoever."

"Where did you see it?"

"Vic had it. I saw it just once. I was in his room, playing some cards with his roommates when he came in with it. Said it was a special order. Wouldn't say who it was going to, but Vic sure made it seem like somebody had paid him something extra special for it. A big deal trade, I'd guess. Somebody wanted that knife something fierce. He squirreled it away with the rest of his loot, wouldn't say who it was going to. I didn't think much about it, until Vic got killed and they said it was with a knife, and I was wondering whether it mighta been that very same knife. Then I heard that it was some homemade job that Scott made up. Then I heard some scuttlebutt that maybe it wasn't, and I started thinking about that knife again. Anyway, don't know if it's helpful, or not, Hart, but thought you might be interested. Wish I knew who got it. That would help a whole lot more. But still, there it is.

Someplace in this lousy camp's an SS dagger. And I'd be wondering about that, if I was you. Would be kinda unusual, too, if it turned out that Trader Vic got murdered with a weapon that he made a deal for."

"Where do you think he got it?"

The captain from New York snorted a small laugh.

"Only one ferret's got that sort of juice, Hart. You and I both know."

Tommy nodded. Fritz Number One.

He heard, in that second, a catch in the captain's voice, as the man continued.

"One other thing's been bothering me. Don't know if it's important, or not…"

"Go on," Tommy said.

"It could be nothin'. I mean, who knows about this shit, right?"

"What was it?"

"You remember tack a coupla weeks when the tunnel out of 109 collapsed?

The one where the two guys got caught and died?"

"Sure. Who doesn't?"

"Yeah. Right. Sure as hell that MacNamara and Clark remember.

I think they were counting on that sucker. Anyways, right around that time Vic was real busy. I mean, real busy. I saw him ducking out more than once, middle of the night."

"How would you know that?"

The captain laughed briefly.

"C'mon, Hart. There's some questions you shouldn't wanna be asking, unless you got some special reason. Look at me, man. I ain't more than five feet six. Just barely qualified for fighters wid' my height.

And I usta be a motorman in a subway. Now, that should tell you that maybe because I ain't some big, tall college guy like yourself and

Scott, there, that maybe somebody's got some other type job for me every so often. You know, the type of job where tall ain't no special advantage, yah don't mind much getting your hands dirty, and it sure as hell helps to be usta being underground."

Tommy nodded.

"I got you."

The pilot continued.

"You know, the night those guys died, I was supposed to be with 'em.

Hadn't been for my sinuses actin' up, I'da been buried in that sand, too. Right alongside 'em. I been thinking about that a lot."

"Lucky."

The fighter pilot caught his words, then continued: "Yeah.

Guess so. Luck's a funny thing. Sometimes real hard to tell exactly who's got it and who ain't, you follow what I'm saying? Scott, there.

You can ask him about luck. Hart. All fighter jockeys know about luck. Good luck. Bad luck. Whatever the fates got in store for you kinda luck. Goes with the job description."

"So, what are you saying?"

"What I'm saying is this: I heard, real reliable, that Trader Vic came into some pretty unusual stuff right about that same time. Stuff that some folks in here would find mighty valuable.

Like Kraut identity cards, travel vouchers, and some currency. You know, Reichsmarks and that sort of stuff.

He also came up with something very interesting: a train schedule. The honest-to-God real deal, that bit of info. Now ain't that the sort of information that can only come from one place and costs a helluva lot and that some people around here would do anything to get their hands on. And I do mean anything."

"When I saw them divvying up Vic's stuff after he was killed I didn't see anything like that," Tommy said.

"No. And you wouldn't. Because stuff like what we're talking about would go direct to the right folks. No matter how good he's got his stuff stashed, why, those documents and papers and shit would be very dangerous. And you could never be completely sure that the Kraut who traded for the stuff wouldn't come right back at you, searching for your stash with a buncha other goons. And if they found any of that stuff, they'd likely seize just about everything you had before tossing you in the cooler for the next hundred years, so it was stuff you'd be turning over to the right folks real goddamn fast, you see what I'm saying? The folks that have some use for that stuff would know what to do with it, and they would be doing whatever it was real quick, you know?"

"I think I'm getting the picture "Tommy started, only to have his words sliced off by the captain directly behind him.

"But yah can't, not really, 'cause even I don't get it. Those guys get killed in the tunnel, and then, just afterward, Bedford gets all these valuable papers, schedules and crap that the escape committee needs, whoever the hell they are, bunch of anonymous bastards, if you ask me.

Even when I was digging, I never knew who the hell was planning the show. All they care about is how many yards we done, and how many yards we got left to do. But I did know this: They would give their right arms for those papers…"

The pilot snorted another laugh, as if he'd inadvertently made a joke.

"Hell," he said briskly, "then they'd all look just like that goddamn

Nazi, Visser, that's skulking around here and always keeping his beady little eyes on you. Hart."

Even Tommy smiled at that thought.

The New Yorker coughed, and continued, "But I'm thinking that the stuff has gotta be worthless to anybody planning an escape, 'cause the Krauts are now dropping satchel charges into the goddamn tunnel and filling it in. The timing don't make sense. I mean, they needed that stuff before the damn tunnel got caved in. Weeks before, so's the forgers can prepare documents and the tailors making escape clothes can work on their stuff and guys heading out can memorize the schedule and practice speaking Kraut. Not after, and that's when Vic got it. Maybe you can dope it out. Hart. But I can't, and it's been on my mind for weeks.

It bothers me."

Tommy nodded, but didn't reply at first, thinking hard.

"You still digging?" he asked suddenly.

The captain hesitated, then replied with a shrug in his voice.

"Ain't supposed to be answering that question. Hart, and you sure as hell know you ain't supposed to be asking it."

"Sorry," Tommy replied.

"You're right."

The man hesitated slightly, then continued, "But hell. Hart, I just want out of here. I want out of here so damn bad some days I think it makes me more hungry than anything. I ain't never been locked up before, and I'm damn certain I ain't never gonna be locked up again.

When I get back to Manhattan, let me tell you, I'm gonna be walkin' the straight and narrow, for sure. You get under the ground working, that's what you keep thinkin' about. All that loose sand and dust.

Cave-ins all the damn time. Can't hardly breathe. Can't hardly see.

Man, it's like digging your own grave. Scare the bejeesus out of you."

At that moment, Hugh, who'd been craning to hear the fighter pilot's words, interjected, "Maybe one of Vic's friends could provide some answers about where that knife and those documents disappeared to, what do you think?"

The captain from New York burst out in a short, nasty half-cough, half-wheezing tone of amusement.

"Vic's friends?

Friends? Man, have you ever got the wrong impression."

"What do you mean?

"Tommy asked.

The pilot hesitated, then said slowly, "You know all those guys, the ones that keep getting into Scott's face? Vic's roommates and the others. The ones causing all the trouble?"

"Yeah, we know 'em," Hugh said, bitterly.

"Well, they like to say they were Vic's friends. That Vic was taking care of 'em and all that. Load of crap, let me tell you. Absolute one hunnert percent bull. Makes for some sort of real convenient explanation for what they've been doing to Scott, which ain't the way a lot of us in the bag would be playing it, no sir. But let me tell you something, Hart. Trader Vic was all about helping out Trader Vic.

Nobody else. Vic had no friends. None. None whatsoever."

The man paused, then added, "That's something you might want to think about."

From the front of the assembly, a German adjutant shouted, "Achtung!

Attention!" Tommy craned his head slightly, and saw Von Reiter had arrived at the head of the formations and was receiving obligatory salutes from the ferrets who had finally satisfactorily completed the count. All kriegies present and accounted for. Another day in the bag ready to begin.

MacNamara was summoned forward, where, after the usual momentary exchange between the commanding officers, he turned and dismissed the Allied airmen. As the blocks of men instantly dissolved, Tommy quickly pivoted to try to catch the captain from New York, but the pilot had already melted into the mass of kriegies momentarily milling about before starting another day of captivity. Only this day held out the promise of being far different from all that had gone before.

Tommy had not moved more than ten yards through the dispersing airmen when he heard his name being called and he turned and saw Walker

Townsend waving at him. He paused, sensing Hugh Renaday and Lincoln

Scott coming to a halt beside him, and the three of them watched the captain from Richmond trot up to them. He wore his usual wry half-smile, and had his cap pushed back on his forehead in a relaxed manner that contradicted the biting wind that pushed sharply at all of them.

"Captain?

"Tommy said.

"Morning, boys," Townsend answered cheerily.

"Sure as hell will be glad to get home to Virginia. Hell, here it is, nearly time for summer to show up, and it still feels like a damn winter morning. Why's anybody want to live in this country, anyways?

So, Tommy, y'all set for the opening act of our little show?"

"I could use more time," Tommy replied.

"Well, seems to me you've been right busy, nonetheless," Townsend replied.

"And I don't believe anyone is inclined to postpone matters none.

Anyways, I wonder if you might just join me for a moment over yonder near Hut 122, where Colonel MacNamara would like a word or two prior to the start of this morning's activities."

Tommy raised his head, staring down the row of huts. Hut 122 was one of the most isolated barracks.

"Mr. Renaday, you may join us, as well."

"Scott, too, if this is something about the case," Tommy said.

Walker Townsend let a small look of annoyance slip across his face, before restoring the same easygoing grin.

"Sure.

That makes some sense. Gentlemen, I do believe we're keeping the commanding officer waiting…"

Tommy nodded, and they followed Townsend through the early morning light and cold. After a few yards. Tommy slightly slowed his pace. He made a small head gesture to Hugh Renaday, who read his motion perfectly, accelerated, and stepped up beside the prosecutor, instantly breaking out into a loud, "I've never been to Virginia, captain. You ever been up to Canada? We like to think that when God made the other countries. He was just practicing, but when He made Canada, He'd got it right, finally…" At the same time, Tommy dropped a step or two back, and Lincoln Scott, seeing the shift in positions, hovered closely.

"This little meeting isn't supposed to be happening, Hart," the black airman said.

"Right?"

"Precisely. Keep your eyes and ears open…"

"And my mouth shut?"

Tommy shrugged as he nodded.

"It rarely hurts to play one's cards close to the vest."

"That's a white man's attitude, Hart. In my situation, or circumstances, you might say, well, it rarely helps. But that's a complicated distinction that you and I can discuss sometime under better conditions. Assuming I live through all this."

"Assuming we all live through it" Scott coughed a laugh.

"True enough. No shortage of people getting killed in this war."

They could all see the Senior American Officer pacing near the entrance to the hut, smoking rapidly. Major Clark was standing nearby, also wreathed in cigarette smoke, which blended with the gray, vaporous breaths that came every time any of the men exhaled into the cold air.

Clark dashed his butt to the ground as the men approached. MacNamara took a long, final pull at the cigarette, then sharply ground it beneath his boot. There was a quick round of salutes, and the SAO glared briefly at Walker Townsend.

"I thought you were only going to summon Lieutenant Hart," MacNamara said sharply.

"That was my order."

Townsend started to reply, then simply remained at attention as

MacNamara cut off any words with a quick wave of the hand. He turned to Lincoln Scott and Tommy Hart.

"I have been troubled about your accusations," he said briskly.

"The implications of the theft of evidence are substantial and could threaten the entirety of this morning's planned sessions."

"Yes sir," Tommy started.

"That is why a delay would be " "I haven't finished, lieutenant."

"Sorry, sir."

MacNamara cleared his throat.

"The more I thought about this matter, the more I came to believe that bringing it up in open court in front of the entire camp population as well as the representatives from the Germans would only serve to confuse the situation considerably. The tension in the camp surrounding the murder and now with the arrival of the trial, as evidenced by the confrontation following the discovery of the carvings on Scott's door… well, gentlemen, I am concerned.

Mightily concerned."

Tommy could sense Scott, standing at his side, about to speak, but the black flier instead swallowed his retort and MacNamara continued to talk.

"Consequently, Lieutenant Hart, Lieutenant Scott, I took it upon myself to summon Captain Townsend, and confront him with the charges you have made, and he assures me that no member of the prosecution nor any witness he is planning on calling to the witness stand were in any way whatsoever involved in this alleged theft."

"Why, Tommy, I thought y'all were just collecting some firewood for the cooking stove, that's all…" Townsend said brightly, interrupting the colonel, but not receiving a rebuke.

"I had no idea it had something to do with our case."

Tommy pivoted toward Townsend.

"The hell you did!" he said.

"You followed me over there and observed me prying that board from the wall. You knew exactly what I was doing. And you were equally concerned that Visser saw the same…"

"Keep your voice down, lieutenant!" Clark interjected.

Townsend continued to shake his head.

"Nothing of the sort," he said.

Tommy turned to Colonel MacNamara.

"Sir, I object-" Again the colonel cut him off.

"Your objection is noted, lieutenant. But…" he paused, eyeing Scott for a moment, before turning his gaze on Tommy, and then speaking with a solidity that seemed to even stop the cold wind, "it is my decision that the matter of this bloodstained board is now closed.

If it did exist, then it was probably understandably mistaken for firewood and innocently burned by some third party genuinely unaware of its significance. That is, if it actually did exist, of which there remains absolutely no concrete proof in the slightest. Mr. Hart, you may still argue what you wish at trial. But there will be no mention of this alleged evidence without some independent corroboration. And we will hear any claims you might make about it and what it might show in private, out of the sight of the Germans! Do I make myself clear?"

"Colonel MacNamara, this is wrong and unfair. I protest-" "Your protest is also noted, lieutenant."

Scott was seething, instantly brought to a boil over by the summary dismissal of their claims. He stepped forward, his fists clenched at his side, jaw stuck outward, about to vent his fury, only to be met with a withering stare from the commanding officer.

"Lieutenant Scott," MacNamara whispered coldly, "keep your mouth shut.

That's a direct order. Your counselor has spoken on your behalf, and further debate will only worsen your situation."

One of Scott's eyebrows shot upward in angry inquisition.

"Worsen?" he asked softly, controlling his rage with internal ropes and hawsers, padlocks and chains.

The single-word question fell into a silence surrounding the men. No one took up a response.

MacNamara continued to freeze the three members of the defense with his steady glare. He allowed the quiet to continue for a few seconds, then he slowly lifted his hand to the edge of his cap, deliberately, the pace displaying his own knotted angers.

"You are all dismissed until zero eight hundred"-he looked down at his watch-"which is fifty-nine minutes from now."

Then MacNamara and Clark turned and headed inside the hut. Townsend, too, started to leave, but Tommy shot out his right arm and seized the captain by the sleeve.

Walker Townsend pivoted like a sailboat coming about under a stiff breeze, and faced Tommy, who had but one word for him, before releasing him: "Liar!" Tommy whispered into the Virginian's face.

The captain half-opened his mouth to respond, then thought better of it. He spun about and marched off swiftly, leaving the three members of the defense alone at the side of the hut.

Scott watched the captain walk away, then he took a deep breath and leaned back against the wall of Hut 122. He reached inside his flight jacket slowly, removing a half-eaten bar of chocolate. He broke off three small chunks, handing one each to Tommy and Hugh, before popping the smallest of the three into his own mouth. For a moment, the trio stepped out of the wind, against the building, letting the richness of the Hershey's bar melt in their mouths, awakening their taste buds.

Tommy allowed the chocolate to turn to mush on his tongue before swallowing.

"Thanks," he said.

Scott grinned.

"Well, that was such a bitter little meeting, I figured we all needed something to sweeten up our existences, and the chocolate was all I currently had available."

The three men all laughed at the joke.

"I would hazard a guess, lads," Renaday said, "that perhaps we should not be expecting too many rulings heading our direction during the upcoming proceedings."

Scott shook his head.

"Nah," he said.

"But he'll still throw us some bones, won't he. Hart? Not the important bones. The ones with meat on them. But some of the smaller ones will still come our way. He wants it to look fair. What did I say before?

A lynching. But a fair one."

Scott sighed.

"Hell," he said, "that was funny. Well, maybe not outright funny, but amusing. Except that it's happening to me." He shook his head.

Tommy nodded.

"Learned something, though. Something I hadn't really thought of. You didn't see it, Scott?"

The black airman swallowed and looked quizzically at Tommy for a moment.

"Keep talking, counselor," he said.

"What was there to see?"

"MacNamara was real concerned about how things play out in front of the Germans, wasn't he? I mean, here we are, stuck over here out of sight of everybody in the camp just about, and he's talking about not letting the Krauts see anything.

Especially something that might suggest that Trader Vic was killed someplace other than that Abort. Now I find that sort of interesting, because, if you think about it, what they really want to show the damn Nazis is how damn bend-over-backwards fair we are in our trials. Not the exact opposite."

"In other words," Scott said slowly, "you think this railroad is part show?"

"Yeah. But it should be show in the opposite direction.

That is to say, a railroad that doesn't look like a railroad."

"Well, even if it is, what good does that do me?"

Tommy paused.

"That's the twenty-five-cent question, isn't it?"

Scott nodded. For a moment he seemed deep in thought.

"I think we learned something else, too. But of course, there's not enough time to do anything about it," the black flier added.

"What's that?" Renaday asked.

Scott looked up into the sky.

"You know what I hate about this damn weather?" he asked rhetorically.

He answered his own question immediately.

"It's that one minute the sun comes out, you can take off your shirt and feel the warmth and you think that maybe there's some hope, and then you wake up the next day and it seems like winter's back and there's nothing but storms and cold winds on the horizon." He sighed, took out the candy bar, and once again broke off a piece for each of them.

"I might not be needing this much longer," he said. Then he twisted toward Hugh.

"What I learned from this little get-together," he said slowly, "is what we should have assumed from the start. That the chief prosecutor is willing to lie about what he saw right in front of the commanding officer. What we should be wondering about is what other lie he's got planned."

This observation caught Tommy by surprise, though upon an instant's reflection, he believed that it was absolutely accurate.

He warned himself: There's a lie somewhere. He just didn't know where it was. But that didn't mean he shouldn't be ready for it.

Tommy glanced down at his watch.

"We'd better get a move on," he said.

"Wouldn't want to be late," Scott said.

"Though I'm not sure that showing up is such a really great idea, either."

Hugh smiled and waved at the nearest guard tower. Two cold goons were huddled in the center, trapped by the wind.

"You know what we should do, Tommy? Wait until everybody's gathered at the trial and then just walk out the front gate like those Brits tried.

Maybe nobody'd notice."

Scott laughed.

"We probably wouldn't get too far. I have my doubts that there are a whole lot of Negroes walking around Germany right at this moment. I don't think we're to be included in the great Nazi master plan. Which might make it a little tricky for me to be out and about in the countryside, escaping."

Scott continued to snort with amusement.

"Isn't that the damnedest thing, when you think about it? I'm probably the only guy in all of Stalag Luft Thirteen the Krauts don't have to guard. I mean, where could I go? How could I hide? A little hard for me to blend in with the local populace and go unnoticed, wouldn't you say? No matter how I was dressed, or what sort of forged documents I had, I still think I just might stand out a little."

He pushed himself off the wall, straightening up, still grinning.

"Time to go, counselor," Scott said.

Tommy nodded. He glanced over at the black flier and thought that Scott would be a fine sort to have at one's side in any fair fight. For an instant he wondered how his old captain from West Texas would have treated the Tuskegee airman. He had no idea what the captain's prejudices were or were not.

But one thing he knew for certain, the captain had a way of assessing one's reliability and coolness under tough circumstances, and on that score, he believed, Lincoln Scott would have gained his admiration.

Tommy doubted he could appear as calm with all that was happening to Scott were the situations reversed. But then, he thought, Scott was absolutely right about one thing: Their situations could never really be reversed.

Kriegies were shoe homed into every available square inch of the theater building, taking every seat, jamming the aisles. As before, crowds of men encircled each window outside the hut, craning to see and hear the action expected within. There was a slightly increased German presence, as well, with ferrets lingering on the edges of the crowds, and an armed squad of helmeted goons collected by the front door. The Germans seemed as intrigued as their prisoners, though their understanding of what was taking place was surely limited by language and custom. Still, the promise of a break in the dreary camp routine was attractive to all, and none of the guards seemed particularly put off at having received the duty.

Colonel MacNamara, flanked by the two other officer members of the tribunal, sat at the center of the head table.

Visser and his accompanying stenographer were shunted to the same side as before. A single stiff-backed wooden chair had been arranged in the center of the bar area where witnesses could sit. As before, there were tables and chairs for the defense and the prosecution, only this time Walker Townsend had taken the more prominent chair, while Major Clark sat at his side.

At precisely zero eight hundred. Tommy Hart, Lincoln Scott, and Hugh

Renaday, once again mimicking a flight of fighters, quick-marched through the open doors, down the center aisle, their flight boots striking at the wooden floorboards with machine-gun-like urgency.

Airmen seated in their path scrambled to move out of their way, then slid back into position as they swept past.

The accused and his two defenders took their seats at the designated table wordlessly. There was a momentary lull, while Colonel MacNamara waited for the buzzing voices and shuffling bodies to calm down. After a few seconds, there was silence in the makeshift courtroom. Tommy stole a quick glance over at Visser, and saw that the German's stenographer was leaning forward, pen poised above a notepad, while the officer once again balanced on the back two legs of his own chair, appearing almost nonchalant, despite the atmosphere of excited tension in the room.

MacNamara's loud voice caused him to refocus on the SAO.

"We are gathered here, today, under the provisions of the United States

Military Code of Justice, to hear the matter of the United States Army versus Lincoln Scott, first lieutenant, who is accused of the premeditated murder of United States Army Air Corps Captain Vincent Bedford while both men were prisoners of war, under the jurisdiction of the German Luftwaffe authorities here at Stalag Luft Thirteen…"

MacNamara paused, letting his eyes sweep over the assembled crowd.

"We will now proceed…" he started, only to stop in mid-sentence as Tommy pushed himself sharply to his feet.

"I would object," Tommy said briskly.

MacNamara stared at Tommy, narrowing his gaze.

"I would at this time renew my objections to proceeding. I would renew my request for additional time to prepare the defense. I am at a loss, Your Honor, as to why we are in such a rush to hold these proceedings.

Even a small delay will allow for a far more thorough review of the facts and the evidence-" MacNamara coldly interrupted.

"No delays," he said.

"That has been discussed. Sit down, Mr. Hart."

"Very good, sir," Tommy said, taking his seat.

MacNamara coughed and let silence fill the room before continuing.

"We will now get under way with opening arguments…"

Once again. Tommy pushed to his feet, scraping the chair backward and then clicking his heels together. MacNamara eyed him coldly.

"Objection?" he asked.

"Indeed, yes. Your Honor," Tommy replied.

"I would renew my objections to these proceedings taking place at this time because under United States military law. Lieutenant Scott is entitled to representation by a fully accredited them her of the bar.

As Your Honor is acutely aware, I have not yet reached that position, whereas my worthy opponent"-he gestured toward Walker Townsend-"has indeed. This creates an unfortunately prejudiced environment, where the prosecution has an unfair advantage in expertise. I would request that these proceedings be delayed until such time as Lieutenant Scott has made available to him a fully qualified counselor, who can more fully advise him of his rights and potential tactics in confronting these baseless charges."

Again, MacNamara continued to stare at Tommy, as the young navigator sat back down.

Lincoln Scott whispered to him, then, in a voice that contained a grin that was hidden from his lips and the men who were eyeing them.

"I like that one. Hart. I definitely like it.

Won't work, of course, but I truly like it. And anyways, what would I want with another lawyer?"

To their right. Walker Townsend arose. MacNamara nodded toward him and the easygoing, slightly accented words of the prosecutor filled the air.

"What my colleague suggests is not unreasonable. Your Honor, although I would argue that Lieutenant Hart has already amply demonstrated his abilities in the courtroom. But I do believe that throughout much of the defense's preparation they were assisted quite ably by a senior British officer, who is also a well-known barrister in that nation, sir, fully versed in all the diverse elements of criminal proceedings-" Tommy immediately leapt up, slicing off the southerner's words.

"And who was summarily removed from the camp by the German authorities!"

He angled forward, staring at Visser.

"And probably murdered!"

This word pitched the gathering of kriegies into hubbub and turmoil. A tangle of voices cascaded through the room.

Visser didn't budge. He did, however, slowly reach for one of his long, brown cigarettes, which he took his time to remove and ignite, carefully manipulating the package and then the lighter with his only arm and hand.

"There is no evidence of that." Townsend replied, his voice raised slightly.

"Indeed," Colonel MacNamara added.

"And the Germans have given their assurances-" "Assurances, sir?

"Tommy interrupted.

"What assurances?"

"The German authorities have assured us that Wing Commander Pryce was to be safely repatriated," MacNamara said sternly.

Tommy felt an ice-cold anger within his stomach. For a moment, he was almost blinded by outrage. There was, he realized, absolutely no reason whatsoever for the Senior American Officer at Stalag Luft Thirteen to have any knowledge at all about Phillip Pryce's removal from the camp.

Pryce was under British jurisdiction and their own chain of command.

That MacNamara had received an assurance, no matter what sort, meant only that they were somehow involved in his removal. This recognition battered him, and for a moment he staggered inwardly, trying to assess what it truly meant. But he had no time for reflection, so instead, he blurted out:

"They are our sworn enemy, sir. Whatever assurances they might have given to you must be interpreted in that light."

He paused, then demanded: "Why would you think they would not lie?

Especially to cover up a crime?"

Again MacNamara glared at Tommy. He banged a few times on his homemade gavel, although the kriegies in the courtroom had already quieted. The hammering sound echoed slightly.

"I do remember that fact, lieutenant, and there is no need for you to remind me. No delays!" he burst out.

"Opening statements!"

The SAO turned to Walker Townsend.

"You are ready, captain?"

Townsend nodded.

"Then proceed! Without further interruption. Lieutenant Tommy started to open his mouth, as if to reply, though in reality he had nothing he wanted to say, having already accomplished what he wished, which was to put everyone in the camp on notice that whatever they thought, convicting Scott wasn't going to be a milk run. And so, he sat down, still troubled by what he'd heard so far. He stole a quick glance over at Townsend, who seemed to be slightly flustered by the defense's first salvos. But Townsend was a veteran, Tommy could see, of both the courtroom and combat, and within a few seconds had composed himself. He took several strides to the center of the room, half-turning so that he was addressing the tribunal, the assembled airmen, and, in part, the German observers. He was about to begin when there was a small disturbance from the rear of the theater building. Out of the corner of his eye. Tommy saw Visser slam his chair upright and rise to his feet. So did the stenographer, instantly coming to attention.

MacNamara and the other members of the tribunal all rose, and this prompted Tommy to reach out and grasp Lincoln Scott by the sleeve, and the two of them also stood. As they did, they heard the rat-a-tat sound of well-heeled boots coming down the center aisle, and they half-turned and saw Commandant Von Reiter, as usual accompanied by a pair of adjutants, approaching the makeshift courtroom.

It was MacNamara who spoke first.

"Commandant," he said.

"I was not aware you planned to attend this session."

Von Reiter threw a single glance over at Visser's instantly scowling face, then replied with an offhand wave, "But Colonel MacNamara, the opportunity to witness the famed American style of justice is rare indeed! Alas, my duties will not permit me to attend the entirety of the trial. But I will be pleased to come when I can manage. Surely, this would not be a problem?"

MacNamara allowed a small smile of his own to slide across his face.

"Of course not, commandant. You are welcome at any time. I only wish that I had made arrangements for a seat."

"I will be pleased to stand," Von Reiter said.

"And please, keep in mind that Hauptmann Visser is the official observer for the Reich as provided by Luftwaffe High Command.

My presence is merely, well, how shall I say it? Merely to satisfy my own curiosity about these matters. Be so kind as to continue."

Von Reiter smiled and moved to the side of the theater building.

Several kriegies quickly moved to make a space for him, jamming themselves amid their own countrymen to avoid coming into contact with the austere German commandant, almost as if the sense of ancient aristocracy that he wore was somehow a disease best avoided by the democratic citizen-soldiers of the air corps. Von Reiter seemed aware of the shuffling, and he leaned up against the wall with a bemused look on his face.

The SAO returned to his seat, gesturing for the others to do the same.

Then he nodded at Walker Townsend.

"You were about to begin. Captain…"

"Yes sir. I will be brief. Your Honor. The prosecution expects to demonstrate that Lieutenant Lincoln Scott and Captain Vincent Bedford experienced a sense of racial animosity from the former's arrival at the camp. This animosity manifested itself in a number of incidents, including at least one outright fight, when Captain Bedford accused Lieutenant Scott of stealing from him. Numerous witnesses will testify to this. It is the prosecution's contention that Mr. Scott, in fear for his own life because of threats made by Captain Bedford, manufactured a weapon, stalked Bedford, finally confronted him in the Abort located between Huts 101 and 102 at a time when all prisoners are required to be in their barracks, that they fought and Captain Bedford was killed. Lieutenant Scott, the evidence will show, had the desire and the means to commit this murder. Your Honor. The evidence that the prosecution will bring is overwhelming. Sadly, there is no other logical conclusion to the events that have unfolded."

Walker Townsend let this last sentence fill the theater. He took a single, quick glance over toward Von Reiter, then back to MacNamara.

Then he sat down.

MacNamara nodded, then looked over at Tommy Hart.

"Mr. Hart? Your opening statement, if you please."

Tommy rose, words beginning to form in his imagination, outrage and indignation filling his gorge, and then he took a deep breath. The hesitation allowed him a second, no more, to think, and he roped in his emotions, "Your Honor," he said with a small smile, "the defense in this matter will reserve the right to make its opening statement until the completion of the prosecution's case."

MacNamara stared at Tommy.

"That is unusual," he said.

"I'm not sure-" "We have the absolute right, under military law, to postpone our opening," Tommy said swiftly, not having any idea at all whether he was right or wrong.

"We are under no obligation to display our defense to the prosecution until such time that it becomes our turn to present it."

Again MacNamara hesitated. Then he shrugged.

"As you wish, lieutenant. Then we will proceed with the first witness."

To MacNamara's left. Commandant Von Reiter took a step forward. The SAO turned toward him, and the German, still wearing a small smile that lingered on the corners of his upper lip, spoke out: "Do I understand that Lieutenant Hart is permitted to not offer his defense at this time? That he can wait for perhaps a more advantageous moment?"

MacNamara replied, "Yes. That is correct, Herr Oberst."

Von Reiter laughed dryly.

"How clever," he said, making a small gesture toward Tommy.

"But, alas, that is what I was most interested in hearing. So, colonel, if you will excuse me now, I will return at some later time.

For I am greatly familiar with the prosecution's contentions concerning Lieutenant Scott. But it is the replies that have been constructed by Lieutenant Hart that intrigue me far more."

The German commandant raised two fingers to the brim of his cap in a languid salute.

"With your leave, colonel…" he said.

"Of course, commandant."

"Hauptmann Visser, I leave this in your hands."

Visser, who had once again risen to his feet, clicked his heels together sharply, the sound echoing above the crowd.

Von Reiter, as always trailed by his two doglike adjutants, then stepped from the courtroom, the eyes of the assembled Allied prisoners following him. As his boot steps faded, MacNamara bellowed, "Call your first witness!"

Tommy watched, as Townsend stepped forward, and thought to himself that what he'd seen had seemed most theatrical.

He had the sensation that he was observing a well-acted play being performed by experts, but using some strange and indecipherable language, so that while he could understand many of the actions, the overall thrust of the words eluded him. This, he considered, was a very strange reaction to have.

Then he slid this sensation into an internal compartment, for examination later, and he focused on the arrival of the first witness.