Hart’s War

Chapter Twelve

The prosecution built their case against Scott steadily throughout the day, closely following the progression that Tommy had expected.

Bedford's overt racism, needling, taunting, accusations, and Deep South prejudice emerged in tale after tale from witness after witness. Set against that was the near-constant portrayal of Lincoln Scott as a man isolated, alone, enraged, being baited into a deadly action by the constancy of Trader Vic's derision.

The problem, as Tommy saw it, was that calling a man a nigger wasn't a crime. Nor was calling a man who had repeatedly put his own life on the line for white aircrews a nigger a crime, even if it should have been. What was a crime, was murder, and throughout the day, the tribunal, the German observers, and all the assembled kriegies of Stalag Luft Thirteen heard nothing from the witness stand except what they would all consider to be a perfectly reasonable motive for that desperate act of killing.

It made a sort of crazy deadly sense: Trader Vic was a thoughtless bastard, and Scott wasn't able to ignore it. Or get away from it. And so he killed the southerner before Bedford took the opportunity to turn his own virulent hatred into action and now Scott should die for that preemptive strike.

Tommy wondered whether this wasn't some variation on a plot that had already played itself out in dozens of forgotten rural courtrooms from Florida, through Georgia, into the Carolinas, across to Tennessee and Arkansas, Mississippi and Alabama. Anywhere the Stars and Bars continued to fly.

That it was happening in a Bavarian forest seemed to him to be as awful and as inexplicable as anything else.

At the defense table, he listened while another witness walked through the crowded courtroom to take his place at the stand.

The trial had stretched into the late afternoon, and Tommy scratched some notes on one of his precious sheets of paper, trying to prepare a cross-examination, thinking how compelling the prosecution's case was.

The vise that Scott was captured within was truly intractable: No matter how outrageous or evil Trader Vic's treatment of the Tuskegee airman had been, it still didn't amount to a justification for his killing. Instead, the situation played directly into the most subtle of fears felt by many of the white members of the air corps: that Lincoln Scott was somehow a threat to all of them, a threat to their futures, and a threat to their lives all because he unapologetically wore his difference on his skin.

Lincoln Scott, with all his intelligence, athleticism, and arrogance, had been turned into more of an enemy than the Germans manning the guard towers. Tommy believed this transformation was the crux of the prosecution, and he remained at a loss as to how to explode it. He knew he had to make Scott seem to be one of them. A simple kriegie. A POW. Suffering the same. Fearful of the same. Lonely and depressed and wondering if he would ever get home again, just the same as every other man in the camp.

The problem was. Tommy realized, that when he put Scott on the stand, the black flier would inevitably be himself: razor-sharp, muscular, and determined, uncompromising and tough.

Lincoln Scott would no more be willing to show himself to be as vulnerable as the rest of them than would some spy captured by the Gestapo. And Tommy thought there was little chance that any of the men craning to hear every word coming from the witness stand would understand that at Stalag Luft Thirteen they were all in their own unique ways alike. No better than any other man. No worse.

He had managed, he thought, some inroads. He made a point of bringing out from every witness that it was never Scott who initiated the tension between him and Vic. He also underscored, with every man who took the stand, that Scott got nothing special. No extra food. No extra privileges.

Nothing that made his life any better, and much, thanks to Vincent Bedford, that made his life far more miserable.

But while bringing this out might help, it still didn't attack the essence of the case. Sympathy was not doubt, and Tommy knew this.

Sympathy was also not a defense, especially for an innocent man. In fact, he understood that in some ways it made matters worse. Every kriegie in the camp had, at one time or another, wondered where his own breaking point might lie. Where all the fear and deprivation they faced daily would overcome whatever control they had. They'd all seen it, when men went wire-crazy and tried to blitz out, only to end up, if they were lucky, in the cooler or, if they were unlucky, in the burial ground behind Hut 113. What the prosecution was building slowly toward was finding Scott's breaking point.

In front of him. Colonel MacNamara was swearing in the witness. The man raised his hand and took an oath to tell the truth, just as he would in a regular courtroom. MacNamara, Tommy thought, was being a stickler for the details and trappings of authenticity. He wanted the proceedings to seem real and not some makeshift jury-rigged prisoner-of-war camp construction.

"State your name for the record," MacNamara boomed, as if there were an official record, as the witness sat stiffly in the chair and Walker Townsend began to hover close by. The witness was one of the roommates. Murphy, the lieutenant from Springfield, Massachusetts, who had confronted Tommy in the corridor. One of the men making the most trouble over the past weeks. He was a slightly built man, in his early twenties, with a few leftover childhood freckles still playing on his cheeks. He had deep red hair, and he was missing a tooth, which he tried to cover up when he smiled, giving his face a lopsided appearance.

Tommy checked his notes. Lieutenant Murphy was in the middle of the list of witnesses Townsend had provided, but he was being called out of order. Threats and animosity between the deceased and the accused. No love lost, whatsoever. That was what Tommy saw in his notes. He knew, as well, that Murphy had been one of the men who'd seen him with the bloodstained board. But he suspected the lieutenant would lie about it, if he tried to ask him.

"This will be our final witness for the day," MacNamara announced.

"Correct, captain?"

Walker Townsend nodded.

"Yes sir," he replied. He had a small smile flitting across his lips.

The prosecutor hesitated, then had Murphy describe how he arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen.

He also had the lieutenant provide a modicum of information about himself, blending the two, so that Murphy's story would seem to every man in the theater to be no different from his own.

As the witness began to speak. Tommy was not paying very close attention. He was still riveted by the idea that he knew that he was closer to the truth about how Trader Vic died, though the why still eluded all of them. The difficulty was how he was to get this alternate version out from the witness stand, and he remained at a loss as to how he could accomplish this. Scott was the one who'd accompanied him on the nocturnal visit to the site where he believed the killing had taken place. But Scott was the last person he wanted to tell that tale from the witness stand. It would appear self-serving and fantastic. It would seem as if Scott was merely lying to protect himself. Without the bloodstained board to back up his story, it would seem nothing more than a not particularly well concocted lie.

He felt almost sick. The truth is transparent. Lies have substance.

Tommy sighed, breathing in deeply, as Walker Townsend patiently continued to ask mundane background questions of Murphy, who answered every one with a quick eagerness.

I'm losing, he thought.

Worse. Every minute, an innocent man takes a stride closer to a firing squad.

He stole a sideways glance at Scott. He knew the black flier understood this. But the iron in his face remained constant.

An expression of deeply muted anger.

"Now, lieutenant," Townsend said loudly, gesturing at the man on the witness chair, then pausing, as if trying to impart some added weight to his question, "you hail from the state of Massachusetts, do you not?"

Tommy, still troubled by all the divergent thoughts crashing around within him, was still only half paying attention. Townsend had this languorous, slow-paced style to his queries, a sort of nonchalant, genteel approach that lulled the defense into some state of unobservant quiet. Prosecutors, Tommy understood, liked weight of testimony every bit as much as they liked drama. Ten people steadily saying the same thing over and over was far better than one person delivering it theatrically.

But the next question got Tommy's attention.

"Now, lieutenant, Massachusetts is a state well known throughout the Union for its advanced and altogether enlightened racial atmosphere, is it not?"

"It is, captain."

"Did it not raise one of the first all-black regiments to fight in the great War Between the States, or what some of us consider the Great War of Secession? A most valorous group under a justly famed white commander?"

"It did, yes sir…"

Tommy rose.

"I object. Why do we need a history lesson, colonel?"

MacNamara waved his hand.

"I'll allow some leeway," he said, "as long as the prosecution makes its point rapidly."

"Thank you," Townsend answered.

"I will move swiftly.

You, Lieutenant Murphy, come from Springfield. A lifelong resident of that fair city in that state, famed as a birthplace to our own revolution, are you not? Bunker Hill, Lexington, and Concord-these important sites are all neighbors, are they not?"

"Yes sir. In the eastern portion of the state."

"And in growing up, it was not unusual for you to come into contact with Negroes, is that correct, sir?"

"Correct. Several attended my high school. And there were others that were employed at my place of business."

"So, you, sir, are not a bigot?"

Again Tommy jumped up.

"Objection! The witness cannot conclude this about himself! Why-"

MacNamara cut him off.

"Captain Townsend, please make your point."

Townsend nodded again.

"Yes sir. My point, sir, is to show this tribunal that there is no southern conspiracy here operating against Lieutenant Scott. We do not hear solely from men who hail from states that seceded from the Union.

The so-called slave states. My point. Your Honor, is that men from states with long traditions of harmonious coexistence of the races are here willing, no, eager, I dare say, to testify against Lieutenant Scott, and who witnessed actions the prosecution feels are crucial to the sequence of events that resulted in this most despicable murder…"

"Objection!" Tommy jumped up, shouting.

"The captain makes a speech designed to en flame the court."

MacNamara stared over at Tommy.

"You are correct, lieutenant.

Objection sustained. Enough with the speech, captain.

On with the questions."

"I would further point out that simply because someone comes from a particular section of the United States gives him no greater or lesser claim on the truth. Colonel…"

"Now, Mr. Hart, it is you who makes speeches. The tribunal can judge the integrity of witnesses without your assistance.

Sit down!"

Tommy sat down hard, and Lincoln Scott immediately leaned over, whispering.

"Racial harmony, my ass. Murphy was just as fast as Vic was with the word nigger. Just spoken in a different accent, that's all."

"I remember," Tommy said.

"In the corridor. I may remind him on cross-examination."

Townsend had sauntered over to the prosecution's table.

Major Clark reached down beneath and removed the dark sheet-metal frying pan that Scott had constructed to fix his meals. The major handed it to Townsend, who pivoted and approached the witness.

"Now, lieutenant, I'm showing you an exhibit that we have introduced as evidence. Do you recognize this, sir?"

"I do, captain," Murphy replied.

"How do you recognize it?"

"I watched as Lieutenant Scott constructed the frying pan, sir. He was in the corner of the barracks room in Hut 101 that we all shared. He fashioned the pan out of a piece of metal liberated from one of the German refuse bins, sir. I have seen other kriegies do the same, but I remember thinking that Scott seemed to have some expertise with metalwork, because this was the best version of the frying pan that I had seen in my months here."

"And what did you observe next?"

"I saw that he had some leftover metal that he was beginning to form into some other shape. He used a piece of wood to hammer out the bends and wrinkles, sir."

"Please tell the tribunal what you next witnessed."

"I left the room, briefly, sir, but when I returned, I saw Lieutenant

Scott wrapping the handle of this leftover piece of metal with an old strip of cloth."

"What was it that he appeared to have constructed?"

"A knife, sir."

Tommy jumped up.

"Objection! Calls for a conclusion."

"Overruled!" MacNamara bellowed.

"Continue, lieutenant."

"Yes sir," Murphy said.

"I remember asking Scott, right then, what the hell did he need that for? Damn thing was near as big as a sword " "Objection!"

"On what grounds?"

"This is hearsay, colonel."

"No, it isn't. Please continue."

"I mean," Murphy persisted, "I'd never seen anyone in this camp ever construct something like that…"

Townsend had once again crossed over to the prosecution's table. Major Clark handed him the flattened metal blade. The prosecutor held it up before him, almost like Lady Macbeth, then he slashed it through the air several times.

"Objection!"Tommy shouted again.

"These histrionics…"

MacNamara nodded.

"Captain Townsend…"

The southerner smiled.

"Of course. Your Honor. Now, Lieutenant Murphy, is this the device you saw Lieutenant Scott manufacture?"

"It is," Murphy replied.

"Did you ever see him use this knife to prepare his food?"

"No sir. Like a lot of us, he had a small, folding penknife that's much more efficient."

"So, Scott never used this blade for any legitimate purpose?"

"Objection!" Once again Tommy was on his feet.

"Sit down. This is why we're here. Lieutenant Hart. Answer the question. Lieutenant Murphy."

"I never saw him use the blade for any legitimate purpose, no sir."

Townsend hesitated slightly, then asked: "And when you saw Lieutenant Scott form this blade, did you ask him why he needed it?"

"Yes sir."

"And his reply. Lieutenant Murphy?"

"Well, sir, I remember his words exactly. They were: "For protection."

And so I asked him who he needed to be protected from, and Scott said:

"That bastard Bedford." Those were his words, sir. Just as I remember. And then he told me, clear out, without my asking any question beforehand, "I ought to kill the son of a bitch before he kills me!

"That's what he said, sir. I heard him clear as day!"

Tommy thrust himself up, throwing his own chair backward, so that it clattered loudly on the floor. He stood stiffly, shouting, "Objection!

Objection! Colonel, this is outrageous!"

MacNamara bent forward, his own face red, almost as if he'd been interrupted in the midst of some backbreaking job of work.

"What precisely is outrageous, lieutenant? The words your client spoke? Or something else?" The Senior American Officer's words were marred with contempt.

Tommy took a deep breath, fixing MacNamara with as harsh a look as the SAO had for him.

"Sir, my objection is twofold. First, this testimony comes as a complete surprise to the defense! When asked what he would testify to, this witness replied, "Threats and animosity…" There was no mention of this alleged conversation! I believe that it is fantasy!

Made-up lies, designed to unfairly influence…"

"You may try to bring that out under cross, lieutenant."

Walker Townsend, smiling lightly, one eyebrow slightly raised, interrupted, then.

"Why, Your Honor, I fail to see where there has been any deception whatsoever. The man told Lieutenant Hart he would testify about threats. And that is precisely what we have just heard from Lieutenant

Murphy. A threat. It is not the prosecution's province to make sure that Lieutenant Hart adequately prepares by seeking additional information from a witness prior to trial. He asked a question of this witness and he received an answer, and he should have pursued it further, if he considered this testimony to be potentially so harmful "

"Your Honor, this is unfair attack! I object!"

MacNamara shook his head.

"Once again. Lieutenant Hart, I must insist you sit down. You will have an opportunity to cross-examine the witness. Until then, be quiet!"

Tommy did not sit, but remained standing. He surreptitiously gripped the edge of the table for support. He didn't dare look over at Lincoln Scott.

Walker Townsend held up the handmade knife.

"I ought to kill the son of a bitch," he bellowed out, the thunder in his voice only accentuated by all the soft tones he'd used before.

"And when did he say this?"

"One, maybe two days before Captain Bedford was murdered," Murphy replied, smugly.

"Murdered with a knife!

"Townsend said.

"Yes sir!" Murphy blurted out.

"A prophecy!" Townsend crowed.

"And now this blade, Lieutenant Lincoln Scott's blade, is stained with the blood of Captain Vincent Bedford!"

He walked over to the prosecution's table and slammed the knife down hard, flat against the table planks. The noise resounded through the silent courtroom.

"Your witness," he said, after a suitable pause for effect.

Tommy rose, his head jumbled with outrage, doubt, and confusion. He opened his mouth, only to see Colonel MacNamara raise his hand, slicing off his words.

"I believe we shall have to wait to have the cross-examination in me morning, lieutenant. We are closing in on time for the evening Appell, are we not, Hauptmann?"

For the first time in what seemed like an hour. Tommy pivoted toward the one-armed German. Visser was nodding his head. He seemed to take some time, however, before answering.

Instead, for several long seconds, the German stared at Lieutenant Murphy, as the Liberator copilot shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Then Visser slowly searched around the courtroom, examining Lincoln Scott and Tommy Hart, then swinging over to the prosecutors, and finally back to Colonel MacNamara.

"You are correct, colonel," Visser replied.

"This would, perhaps, be an appropriate and convenient moment for dismissal."

Visser rose and the stenographer at his side clapped shut his notebook.

MacNamara banged his homemade gavel down.

"Until tomorrow, then. We will reconvene without delay directly after the completion of the morning count! Lieutenant Murphy?"

"Yes sir?"

"You are not to discuss your testimony with anyone. Got that? Not anyone, prosecution, defense, friends, or foes. You can talk about the weather. You can talk about the army.

You can talk about the lousy food, or the lousy war. But what you can't talk about is this case. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir! Absolutely."

"Fine then," MacNamara briskly said.

"You are dismissed."

He looked up at the assembled men.

"You are all dismissed."

He rose and the kriegies all scrambled to their feet, coming to attention as the members of the tribunal pushed back from their table and stiffly exited the theater. They were followed by Major Clark and Captain Townsend, who had trouble containing his grin as he swept past Tommy, and then, in quick order, Visser and most of the other Germans.

One or two of the ferrets who lingered slightly behind urged the kriegies to depart, their hoarse cries of "Raus! Raus! You are dismissed!" cutting through the air behind Tommy's head.

Tommy closed his eyes for a moment, searching the black emptiness within. After a second, he opened up, and turned to Lincoln Scott and Hugh Renaday. Scott was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed upon the empty witness chair. Unblinking.

Rigid.

Hugh leaned forward.

"Well," he said slowly, "that was a shot across the bow, what? How do we prove that bastard is lying?"

Tommy started to reply, although he was unsure what he was going to say, only to be cut off by Scott.

The black flier's voice was dry, parched. It rasped and echoed slightly in the theater. They were alone now.

"It wasn't a lie," Scott said quietly, almost as if each word he spoke were painful.

"It was the truth. It's exactly what I said to the slimy son of a bitch. Word for word."

By the time they finished the evening Appell and returned to their room in Hut 101, Tommy was seething. He slammed the door shut behind them and pivoted to face Lincoln Scott.

"You could have goddamn told me," he said, his voice rising in pitch like an engine accelerating.

"It might have been helpful to know that you threatened the life of the murder victim right before he was killed!"

Scott started to reply, then stopped. He shrugged and sat down heavily on the edge of his bed.

Tommy's hands were balled into fists, and he circled the space in front of the black flier.

"I look like a goddamn idiot!" he raged.

"And you look like a killer! You told me you didn't know anything about that damn knife, and now it turns out you built the damn thing!

Why didn't you tell me?"

Scott shook his head, as if unwilling to answer that question.

"After I shot my mouth off to Murphy, I stuck it next to where I kept my Red Cross box. It disappeared the next morning. The next time I saw it was when Clark pulled it out from the hiding place that I didn't know about, right under the bunk."

"Well that's great," Tommy said furiously.

"That's a great story. I'm sure just about everyone will believe that…"

Again Scott looked up, ready to reply, then stopped himself.

"How the hell do you expect someone to defend you when you won't tell him the truth?" Tommy demanded furiously.

Scott opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, he kept his head bent, almost as if in prayer, until he finally sighed deeply and whispered a reply.

"I don't," he said.

Tommy's jaw dropped, in surprise.

"What?"

Scott's eyes rose slightly, peering at Tommy.

"I don't want to be defended," he said slowly.

"I don't need to be defended.

I have no desire to be defended. I shouldn't be in a position where I have to be defended! I have done nothing! Nothing except tell the truth! And if those truths don't work out right for you, well, I can't do anything about that!"

With each sentence, Lincoln Scott had stiffened, finally rising to his feet, his hands clenched tightly in front of him.

"So I threatened the bastard! What's wrong with that? So I made a show of constructing a knife? That's not against the goddamn rules, because there are no rules! So I told him I would kill him. I had to say something, for Christ's sake! I couldn't just sit around quietly, ignoring everything the bastard was saying and doing! I had to put Bedford on notice, somehow, that I wasn't like every weak-kneed, terrified, ignorant black man that he's been bullying and holding down every minute of every day of his whole damn life! I had to get across to that bigoted bastard that it didn't make any difference to me if I was all alone here. I wasn't going to shuffle off into some corner and yassuh, nosuh, take all his abuse, just like all those others. I'm not a slave! I'm a free man! So I constructed a goddamn sword, and let him know I would use it!

Because the only thing the goddamn Bedfords of this world understand is the same violence they want to deliver to you!

They're cowards, when you stand up to them, and that's all I was doing!"

Scott, seething himself, stood stock-still in the center of the room.

"Do you understand now?" he asked Tommy.

Tommy stood up, directly in front of the black flier. Their faces were only inches apart.

"You're not free," he said starkly, punctuating each word with a short choppy hand motion.

"Neither you, nor I, nor anyone else here is free!"

Scott shook his head vigorously, side to side.

"You might be a prisoner. Hart. Renaday might. Townsend and

MacNamara and Clark and Murphy and all the others might. But not me!

They may have shot me down and locked me up here and now they may march me in front of a firing squad for something I didn't do, but no sir, I will never see myself as a prisoner! Not for a second, understand! I am a free man, temporarily trapped behind barbed wire."

Tommy started to reply, and then stopped. There was the problem, in the proverbial nutshell. The weight that Scott carried went far deeper than a simple murder accusation.

Tommy stepped back and took a few paces in a circle in the small room, thinking.

"Have you ever, in your entire life, trusted a white man?" he suddenly asked.

Scott took a single step backward, as if the question struck him like a hard jab.

"What?"

"You heard me," Tommy said.

"Answer the question."

"What do you mean, trust?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Answer the question!"

Scott's eyes narrowed, and he hesitated before replying.

"No black man, in today's world, can get ahead without the help of some well-meaning white folks."

"That's not a goddamn answer!"

Scott started, stopped, then smiled. He nodded.

"You're correct." He paused again.

"The answer is no. I have never trusted any white man."

"You were willing to use their help, though."

"Yes. In school, generally. And my father's church sometimes benefited from charities."

"But every smile you made, every time you shook hands with a white man, that was a lie, wasn't it?"

Lincoln Scott sighed slightly, almost as if amused.

"Yes," he said.

"In a way, yes."

"And when we shook hands, that was a lie, too."

"You could see it that way. It is simple. Hart. It's a lesson you learn early on in life. If you're going to rise up and be someone, you can rely only on yourself!"

"Well," Tommy said slowly, "by relying solely on yourself, I would say your future prospects have diminished some in recent days." He made no attempt to hide his sarcasm, and Lincoln Scott seemed to bristle, in return.

"That may be true," Scott answered, "but at least when I hear that firing squad commander give the order, I'll know that no one ever stole from me that which is more important than my life."

"Which would be?"

"Dignity."

"Does a helluva lot of good for you when you're dead."

"That's where you're wrong, Hart. Completely wrong.

Which is the difference between you and me. I want to live just as much as you, or any other man here. But I'm not willing to be someone different in order to survive. Because that would be a far greater lie than those being spoken from this witness stand. Or any other location."

Tommy paused, considering what Scott had said. Finally, he shook his head.

"You are a difficult man to understand, Scott. Very difficult."

Scott smiled enigmatically.

"You presume I want to be understood."

"All right. Point well taken. But, it seems to me that you are only willing to fight these accusations on your own terms."

"That is the way that I know."

"Well, listen to me when I tell you that we're going to have to do something different, because we're not going to win as it stands now."

"I understand that," Lincoln Scott said, sadly.

"But what you fail to understand is that there are different sorts of victories.

Winning in this phony kangaroo court may not be as important as refusing to change who I am!"

Tommy was taken aback by this statement, and not quick to respond. But the sudden silence between the two men was filled by Hugh Renaday. He had been standing, shoulder to the wall, watching and listening throughout all the angry words shared between the two men, remaining silent. But now he finally stepped forward, shaking his head.

"You're a pair of damn fools," he said sharply.

"And both blind as bats."

The two men turned toward the Canadian, who was grinning almost maniacally, as he spoke.

"Neither of the two of you fools can see the big picture, here. Can you now?"

Scott lightened up, just a small amount, in that second.

"But you're going to tell us, right?"

"I am, indeed," Hugh snorted.

"Where's Phillip Pryce when one truly needs him? You know. Tommy, if he is dead and looking down at you from up above somewhere, the old limey bastard is probably choking on your words."

"Maybe so, Hugh. Enlighten me."

Hugh stomped about for a moment, then lit a cigarette.

"You, Lincoln, you want to undo the world! You want change, as long as it isn't you that changes. And you. Tommy, you're so mesmerized by playing by the rules that you can't see how unfair they are! Ah, you're both crazy, and neither of you is acting with any bloody sanity whatsoever."

He pointed at Lincoln Scott.

"You made yourself into a perfect man to accuse, didn't you? I mean, someone in this damn camp wanted to kill Trader Vic, and went out and did it, and then you couldn't have made yourself any damn more convenient for him to shift the blame right onto your bloody ass! True enough?"

Scott nodded.

"That's not the most elegant way of putting things. But true enough.

Seems that way."

"And, I dare say, you couldn't make it any damn easier for Townsend to convict you, either."

Scott nodded.

"But…" he started.

Hugh shook his head.

"Ah, don't speak to me of buts and maybes and hopefullys and all that crap! There is only one solution to this situation, and that is winning, because when all is said and done, that's the only thing that matters! Not how you win, or why you win, or even when you win. But win you must, and the sooner you see that, the better off we shall all be!"

Scott stopped. Then nodded.

"Perhaps," he said.

"Bloody right! You think about that! You've been so damn busy proving that you're better than anyone else here, you've forgotten to see how you're exactly the damn same! And you, Tommy, you haven't done what you said we'd do, which is to fight back! Use their own damnable lies against them!"

Hugh coughed hard.

"Didn't Phillip teach you a bloody thing?" He looked down at the end of his smoke, then pinched off the burning ember, stomping on it as it tumbled to the floor, and then stuffing the half-smoked butt into his blouse breast pocket.

"I'm hungry," he said, "And I think it's damn time we ate, though why I'm sitting about with the two of you posturing fools is beyond me. You both want to win, and you want to win in the goddamn right way, or else it's somehow not right? This is a bloody war! People are dying every second of the day and night! It's not a boxing match with Marquis of Queensberry rules! Go to war, damn it, the two of you! Stop playing fair! And until the two of you put your heads together and agree to do that, well, a pox on both of you."

"A plague," Scott said, smiling.

"All right, then," Hugh snorted.

"A plague, if you prefer."

"That's what Mercutio says, as he dies," Scott continued.

"A plague on both your houses!" Capulets and Montagues."

"Well, bloody Mercutio and bloody Shakespeare got it bloody right!"

Hugh went over to his bunk and reached beneath it, removing a Red Cross parcel with foodstuffs.

"Damn it," he said, as if the parcel and its limited contents were somehow surprising.

"All I have left is one of those damn awful British Red Cross parcels.

Weak tea and tasteless kippers and crap! Tommy, I hope you've got something better. From the States. Land of Plenty and Abundance."

Tommy thought for a moment, then asked, "Hugh, what was the German ration for tonight?"

Hugh looked up, snorting hard.

"The usual. Kriegsbrot and some of that damn awful blood sausage.

Phillip used to take it and bury it in the garden, even when we were starving.

Couldn't bring himself to eat it. Neither can I. Neither can anyone I know, in either compound. How the Krauts manage to swallow it is beyond me, as well."

Blood sausage, Tommy thought suddenly. It was a staple of the German issue to the kriegies, and just as routinely refused even when they were starving. The sausage was disgusting stuff, thick tubes of what the prisoners thought was congealed offal liberally mixed with slaughterhouse blood, given a hard enough consistency by mixing it with sawdust. No matter how it was cooked, it still tasted like eating waste matter. Many of the men buried it, as Pryce had done, in the hope that it might serve as fertilizer. The theater troops in both British and American compounds occasionally mashed it up and used it as a prop in some play's scene that called for blood.

He turned suddenly to Scott.

"Did you ever eat it?"

The black airman looked surprised, then shook his head.

"I collected it once or twice, tried to figure out a way of cooking it, but same as everybody else, it was just too damn disgusting."

"But you got the ration, right?"

"Yes."

Tommy nodded.

"Hugh," he said slowly.

"Take a couple of cigarettes and go out and see if you can't find someone with some of the sausage. The worst, foulest, most repulsive log of German blood sausage you can find, and make a trade for it.

Bring it back here. I've got an idea."

Hugh looked confused, then shrugged.

"Whatever you say," he said.

"Although I think you've gone bloody daft." He patted his blouse to make sure he had some smokes and headed out into the corridor.

As soon as the door shut. Tommy turned to Lincoln Scott.

"All right," he said.

"Hugh makes good sense. If you have no objection, I think now's the time to stop playing by their rules."

Scott hesitated before nodding.

Colonel MacNamara reminded Lieutenant Murphy that he was still under oath as the flier resumed his seat in the center of the makeshift courtroom and the morning session was set to get under way. Everyone was in the same position as the day before, defense, prosecution, hundreds of kriegies jamming the seats and aisles, Visser and the stenographer in their customary corner, and the stiff-faced tribunal watching over all of it.

Murphy nodded, squirmed once in his seat, trying to get comfortable, then waited for Tommy Hart to approach with a small, anticipatory smile on his face.

"Springfield, Massachusetts, correct?"

"That's right," Murphy replied.

"Born and raised."

"And you say you worked alongside Negroes?"

"Right, again."

"On a daily basis?"

"Daily, yes sir."

"And what sort of business was this?"

"My family were part owners of a meat processing plant, Mr. Hart. A small, local plant, but we had contracts for numerous restaurants and schools in the city."

Tommy thought for a moment, then continued slowly.

"Meat processing? Like steaks and chops?"

Murphy grinned.

"Yes sir. Steaks so thick and tender you didn't need no knife to cut them. Porterhouse and sirloin, even filet mignon"-he pronounced it fee lit migg-non- "chops that taste sweet almost like candy. Lamb chops. Pork chops. And hamburger, finest in the state, without a doubt.

Man, what I wouldn't give for one of those right about now, cooked on an outdoor fire…"

The entire theater both laughed and groaned at the airman's words. A ripple of talk went through the room, all variations on the same, as one man whispered to the next, "What I wouldn't do for a rib eye steak, grilled with onions and mushrooms…"

Tommy let the laughter subside. He wore a small, crooked smile of his own.

"Meat processing can be a pretty foul business, can't it, lieutenant? I mean, slaughtered animals, guts, blood, shit, and fur. Got to get rid of all that waste, just leave the good parts behind, correct?"

"That's the game, lieutenant."

"Getting rid of all that foul, disgusting stuff, that's where the

Negroes worked, right, lieutenant? They didn't have the well-paying jobs, did they, these Negroes you worked with?

They were the people who took care of the mess, right? The mess that the white men didn't want to deal with."

Murphy hesitated, then shrugged.

"That's the jobs they seemed to want."

"Sure," Tommy replied.

"Why would anyone want something better?"

Lieutenant Murphy didn't answer this question. The courtroom had once again quieted.

Tommy moved about in front of Lieutenant Murphy, pacing in a small circle, first turning his back on the man, then suddenly pivoting to face him. Every motion he made, Tommy thought, was designed to unsettle the man.

"Tell me. Lieutenant Murphy, who is Frederick Douglass?"

Murphy thought hard for a moment, then shook his head.

"I'm not sure. Isn't he a general on Ike's staff?"

"No. Actually," Tommy said slowly, "he was a longtime resident of your state."

"Never heard of him."

"That doesn't surprise me."

Walker Townsend rose to his feet.

"Your Honor," he said with a tone of exasperated impatience.

"I fail to see what is the point of this cross-examination. Lieutenant

Hart has yet to ask the witness about the gentleman's trial testimony.

He complained of history lessons yesterday offered by the prosecution, and yet returns today with some question about a man who died decades ago-" "Colonel, it was the prosecution that made the point about Lieutenant Murphy's racial 'enlightenment." I'm only following up on that."

MacNamara scowled, then said, "I will permit these questions as long as you hurry up and make your point, lieutenant."

Tommy nodded. At the defense table, Lincoln Scott whispered to Hugh

Renaday, "There's one of the bones tossed in our direction."

Pausing for just an instant. Tommy turned back toward Murphy, who again shifted in his seat.

"Who is Crispus Attucks, lieutenant?"

"Who?"

"Crispus Attucks."

"Never heard the name. Another Massachusetts man?"

Tommy smiled.

"Good guess, lieutenant. Now, you say you are not a bigot, sir, but you cannot identify the Negro who died at the infamous Boston Massacre, and whose sacrifice was celebrated by our founding fathers at that pivotal moment in our nation's history? Nor do you recognize the name of Frederick Douglass, the great abolitionist, many of whose writings were committed to print in your fair state."

Murphy stared angrily at Tommy but did not reply.

"History wasn't my best subject in school," he said bitterly.

"Obviously. Now, I wonder what else you don't know about Negroes."

"I know what I heard Scott say," Murphy spat out sharply.

"And that's a whole damn sight more important than some history lesson."

Tommy hesitated, and nodded.

"Indeed. Now, you're not very bright, are you, lieutenant?"

"What?"

"Smart." Tommy fired his questions rapidly, picking up momentum and raising his voice.

"I mean, you had to go to work in the family business, weren't bright enough to do something on your own, correct? How'd you qualify for officer's training, anyway? Your daddy know somebody who pulled some strings? And that school where you said Negroes attended beside you. I bet you didn't even get grades as good as theirs, did you? And you were happy keeping those Negroes sweeping up while you made money, correct? Because if you ever gave one of them a chance, you were afraid they'd do a hell of a lot better job than you could, right?"

"Objection! Objection!" Walker Townsend shouted.

"He's asking ten questions at once!"

"Lieutenant Hart!" Colonel MacNamara started.

Tommy swung his face down toward Murphy.

"You hate them because they make you afraid, don't they?"

Again Murphy didn't reply. He simply seethed.

"Lieutenant Hart, I warn you, sir," MacNamara said, slamming his gavel down sharply.

Tommy stepped back from the witness, staring across the small space at Murphy, looking into his eyes.

"You know. Lieutenant Murphy, I can tell what you're thinking right now."

"What's that?" Murphy asked, between tightly clenched teeth.

Tommy smiled.

"Why, you're thinking, "I ought to kill that son of a bitch…" aren't you?"

Murphy scowled.

"No," he said.

"I'm not."

Tommy nodded, still grinning.

"Sure you aren't." He stood up straight and gestured toward the packed audience and the kriegies hanging by the windows, listening to every word.

"I'm sure that everyone here believes that denial. Absolutely.

I must be one hundred percent wrong…"

Sarcasm swirled around every one of Tommy's words.

"I'm sure you didn't think, "I ought to kill that son of a bitch…" and you received perhaps one tenth of one percent of the abuse that

Trader Vic subjected Lincoln Scott to on each and every day since Mr. Scott first arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen!"

"He said it," Murphy persisted.

"I didn't."

"Of course he did," Tommy answered.

"But he didn't say:

' I'm going to kill that son of a bitch," or' I must kill that son of a bitch," or "I plan to kill that son of a bitch tonight…" He didn't say any of those things, did he, lieutenant?"

"No."

"He said what anyone else might have said, under the exact same circumstances."

"Objection! Calls for the witness to speculate," Townsend shouted.

"Ah, withdrawn, then," Tommy interjected.

"Because we surely wouldn't want Lieutenant Murphy to speculate about anything."

MacNamara glared down at Tommy.

"You've made your point," he said.

"Are you finished with this witness?"

Tommy shook his head.

"Not quite."

He walked over to the prosecution's table and picked up the knife.

"Now, Lieutenant Murphy, were you, or anyone else in the barracks room, in the habit of sharing meals with Lieutenant Scott?"

"No."

"In every other room, people share foodstuffs and take turns doing the cooking, correct?"

"It seems that way."

"But Scott was excluded?"

"He didn't seem to want to be a part " "Oh, of course. He'd rather starve on his own, all by himself."

Murphy glared again, and Tommy continued.

"So he ate alone. I presume he fixed his own meals, as well."

"Yes."

"So you really wouldn't know for sure what knife he might have used at any given point to prepare his meals, would you?"

"He had a penknife. I saw him use it."

"Did you always watch him fix his meals?"

"No."

"So you really have no idea whether or not he might have used this homemade blade, on any occasion, do you?"

"No."

With the blade still in his hand, Tommy walked over to the defense table. Hugh reached down by his feet and handed Tommy a small parcel.

Tommy put the knife down, and then took the parcel over to the witness.

"You are an expert on meats, lieutenant. After all, your family owns a meat-packing business. Lucky for you, I guess. I would hate to have to have you rely on your own wits to get ahead…"

"Objection," Townsend yelled.

"Lieutenant Hart insults the witness!"

"Lieutenant," Colonel MacNamara said coldly, "I'm warning you. Do not persist along this road."

"Right, colonel," Tommy said briskly.

"I would surely hate to insult anyone…"

He sneered at Lieutenant Murphy, who eyed him with an ill-disguised fury of his own.

"Now, lieutenant, be so kind as to identify this for us."

Murphy reluctantly reached out and took the parcel from Tommy Hart. He swiftly unwrapped it and grimaced.

"German blood sausage," he said.

"Everyone's seen this before. Standard issue from the Krauts."

"Would you eat this?"

"No one I know in the entire camp eats it. People'd rather starve."

"Would you, the expert on meats and meat processing, eat this?"

"No."

"What goes into this sausage, lieutenant?"

Murphy scowled again.

"Hard to say. The sausage we make back in the States is thick, solid, and carefully prepared.

Sanitary. No one gets sick off of what we fix and send to market. This stuff, well, who knows? Lots of pig's blood and other types of waste matter, loosely packed in sheaths of intestines.

You wouldn't want to know what could be in there."

The sausage was almost gelatinous. It was a deep brown-black color, tinged with red. It gave off a foul odor.

Tommy took the parcel and removed the sausage, holding it up for the audience to recognize. There was some uncomfortable laughter of recognition in the crowd.

Then Tommy moved back to the defense table. He picked up the homemade blade, then seized one of his precious white sheets of notepaper from the desk. Before the prosecution caught on to what he was doing. Tommy wrapped the paper around the handle of the knife, covering the cloth that was already stained. He held the blade up, theatrically, as Walker Townsend jumped up and shouted out "Objection!" once again. Tommy ignored the word, and ignored the sudden gaveling from the tribunal's table. Instead, he took the knife and swiftly plunged it down hard across the thick middle of the sausage, cutting it in half. Then he chopped at the sausage twice more, making certain that the paper-wrapped handle creased the mess of false meat. The room seemed to fill with an exaggerated pungent smell of waste, and the kriegies closest to the defense table groaned as the smell struck them.

Tommy ignored the objections flooding from the prosecution, and paced directly in front of Lieutenant Murphy. He raised his own voice above all the other noise, and silenced the room with his question: "What do you see on the paper, lieutenant? The paper around the handle?"

Murphy paused, then shrugged.

"It looks like blood," he said.

"Specks of blood."

"About the same amount of blood that mars the cloth and which the prosecution claims with no supporting evidence whatsoever belongs to Trader Vic!"

Stepping back from the witness. Tommy shouted, "No further questions."

He took the knife and unwrapped the paper from the handle, holding it above his head so that the entire courtroom could see the splatter marks. Tommy then walked over to Walker Townsend and handed the paper to the prosecutor, who shook his head from side to side. The knife, however, he jabbed by the point into the tabletop, leaving it vibrating like a tuning fork in the once again silent courtroom.