Hart’s War

Chapter Thirteen

Tommy spotted Fritz Number One counting the adjacent formation of kriegies at the following morning's Appell. He kept the lean ferret locked in his sight throughout the assembly, ignoring the light rain that fell from dark gray skies, staining the brown leather of his flight jacket with streaks of black dampness. When Major Clark saluted Oberst Von Reiter and saw the usual nod from Colonel MacNamara, and then spun sharply and bellowed out the dismissal, Tommy surged through the melee of fliers, pushing his way directly to where Fritz and some of the other ferrets were gathered at the edge of the exercise yard, smoking and divvying up the day's assignments. The German looked up as Tommy approached, frowned, and immediately stepped away from the others.

Tommy stopped, a few feet away, and beckoned to the ferret, cocking a single finger with exaggeration like some impatient and harsh schoolteacher overseeing a laggardly student. Fritz Number One looked about nervously for an instant, then took a few quick strides to Tommy's side.

"What is it, Mr. Hart?" he asked swiftly.

"I have many duties to perform this morning."

"Sure you do," Tommy replied.

"What, there's some spot that needs to be inspected for the ten millionth time? You need to be sneaking around somewhere urgently?

Come on, Fritz. You know the only show in town today is Scott's trial."

"I still have my duties, Mr. Hart. We all do. Even with the trial."

Tommy shrugged in an overstated, disbelieving fashion.

"Okay," he said.

"I'll only take a minute or two of your valuable time. Just a couple of questions, then you can get back to whatever is so damn important."

Tommy smiled, paused for a second, then demanded in a loud voice that carried to where the other ferrets were gathered: "All right, Fritz. I want to know where you got the knife from, and when exactly you traded it to Vic. You know which one I'm talking about: the murder weapon…"

Fritz Number One paled, and grabbed Tommy by the arm.

Shaking his head, he pulled the American flier into the lee of one of the huts, where he responded both angrily and with what Tommy detected was more than a small share of nervousness.

"You cannot be asking me this. Lieutenant Hart! I have no idea of what you are speaking…" Tommy interrupted the instantaneous whining response with a sharp-edged reply of his own.

"Don't bullshit me, Fritz. You know precisely what I'm talking about.

A German ceremonial dagger. Maybe SS type. Long and thin and with a death's head skull at the tip of the handle. Very similar to what Von Reiter wears when he's all decked out and ready to go to some important function. Trader Vic wanted one, and you got it for him, not long before he was killed. Like a couple of days at the most. I want to know about it. I want to know word for word what Vic said to you when he traded for that knife, and where it was supposed to go and who was supposed to get it. I want to know everything you did. Or maybe you'd prefer if I took my questions to Hauptmann Visser. I betcha he'll be real interested in knowing about that knife."

The German reeled back, almost as if he'd been struck, pressing against the wall of the hut. Fritz Number One looked ill.

Tommy took a deep breath, then added, "Why, I'll wager a pack of Luckies that it's against some Luftwaffe rule to trade an actual weapon to a prisoner of war. And especially some fancy special Nazi-type honor of the fatherland big deal dagger…"

Fritz Number One twisted about, looking over Tommy's shoulder, making certain that no one had hovered close enough to hear their conversation. He stiffened visibly when he heard Tommy speak Visser's name.

"No, no, no," he replied, shaking his head back and forth.

"Lieutenant, you do not understand how dangerous this is!"

"Well," Tommy answered in tones as blandly matter-of-fact as he could muster, "why don't you tell me?"

Fritz Number One's voice quivered and his hands shook slightly as he gestured.

"Hauptmann Visser would have me shot," he whispered.

"Or sent to the Russian front, which is the same. Exactly the same, except maybe not as quick and maybe a little worse. To trade a weapon to an Allied airman is verboten "But you did it?"

"Trader Vic, he was insistent. At first, I told him no, but it was all he could speak about. A souvenir, he promised me.

Nothing more! He had a special customer, he said, willing to pay a large price. He needed it without delay. That day. Immediately!

He told me it had great value. More value than anything else he'd ever traded for."

For a moment. Tommy swallowed hard, imagining the cold-blooded ness of the man who performed the ultimate swindle upon Trader Vic, getting the camp's entrepreneur to provide him with the weapon that he would then use to kill him. Tommy felt his mouth dry up, almost parched at the thought.

"Who wanted it? Who was Trader Vic fronting for?"

"I don't understand fronting…"

"Who was he making the deal for?"

Fritz Number One shook his head.

"I asked. I asked more than once, but he would not tell me this name.

But he said it was a sweetheart deal. That is what his words were.

Lieutenant Hart. Sweetheart. I did not understand this either, until he explained it to me."

Tommy frowned. He was not sure that he totally believed the ferret.

Nor was he at all sure he disbelieved him. Something in between. And it certainly hadn't turned into a sweetheart deal for one man.

"Okay, so you didn't get the name. So where did you steal the knife?

From Von Reiter?"

Fritz Number One shook his head rapidly.

"No, no, I could never do that! Commandant Von Reiter is a great man!

I would be dead a long time ago, fighting the Ivans, if he had not brought me here with him when he received his orders. I was only a mechanic on his flight crew, but he knew I had the gift for languages, and so I accompanied him. It was death to remain behind, in Russia!

Death. Winter, freezing cold, and death. Lieutenant Hart. That was all there was for us in Russia. Commandant Von Reiter saved me! I shall never be able to fully repay Commandant Von Reiter! If I am able to live through the war, it will be because of him! And here, I serve the commandant as best I can. I would never steal from him!"

"From someone else, then?"

Again Fritz shook his head. He whispered his response frantically, his words almost hissing, like air escaping from a punctured tire.

"To steal this item from a German officer, and then trade it to an Allied airman, lieutenant, this would be a death warrant! The Gestapo would come for you! Especially so, if Hauptmann Visser were to discover it!"

"So you didn't steal it?"

Fritz continued to shake his head.

"Hauptmann Visser does not know of this dagger. Lieutenant Hart! He suspects, but he does not know for certain. Please, he cannot learn.

It would mean great trouble for me…" In the slight hesitation at the end of his voice, Tommy heard distinctly that it would not be Fritz alone who suffered if this particular trade were exposed.

And so he asked the obvious question.

"And who else, Fritz? Who else would be in trouble?"

"I will not say."

Tommy stopped. He could see the tremor in Fritz's jaw, and he believed he knew the answer to his question. Fritz had already told him. And,

Tommy thought, there was probably only one man in the camp who could have provided that specific dagger without first stealing it. He decided to press the ferret further.

"Tell me about the commandant and Visser," Tommy asked suddenly.

"Do they " "They despise each other," Fritz interrupted.

"Really?"

"It is a deep and terrible hatred. Two men who have worked closely together for months. But they have nothing together but contempt.

Contempt and complete hatred for each other.

Each would be gladdened greatly to see an Allied bomb drop in the lap of the other."

"Why is that?"

The ferret shrugged, sighing, but his voice was shaky, almost like an old woman's.

"Visser is a Nazi. He wishes the camp were his to command. The policeman son of a provincial schoolteacher. His father's party number is less than one thousand! He hates all the Allies, but especially the Americans because he once lived among you and the British fighter pilots because one of them took his arm. He hates that Oberst Von Reiter treats all the prisoners with respect! Commandant Von Reiter, he comes from an old, important family, who have served in the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe for many generations. There is no love lost between the two.

I should not be speaking of these things. Lieutenant Hart! I will say no more."

Tommy nodded. This didn't surprise him terribly. He scratched at his own cheek, feeling the day's stubble growing there, then fired another question, taking the ferret by surprise.

"What did you get, Fritz? When you traded the knife?"

Fritz Number One shuddered, almost as if a sudden fever had slid through his body. Either the damp rain or sweat had broken out on his forehead, and his words continued to quiver.

"I got nothing," he answered, shaking his head back and forth.

Tommy snorted.

"That doesn't make any damn sense!

You're telling me that this was a big deal, the biggest deal, and that Trader Vic had a buyer already lined up ready to pay through the nose, and now you're saying you got nothing in return? Bullshit! Maybe I should go talk to Visser. I'm sure he has all sorts of extremely clever and decidedly unpleasant methods for extracting information…"

Fritz Number One shot out his hand, grasping Tommy by the arm.

"Please, Lieutenant Hart, I am begging you. Do not speak to the

Hauptmann of these matters! I fear that even Oberst Von Reiter would not be able to protect me!"

"Then what did you get? What was the trade?"

Fritz Number One lifted his head, eyes skyward, as if wracked by sudden pain. Then he lowered his eyes, and whispered to Tommy Hart: "The payment was due the night Captain Bedford was murdered!" The ferret's voice was so low, Tommy had to crane forward.

"He was to meet me with the payment in the dark that night. But he never arrived at our meeting place."

Tommy inhaled slowly. There was the explanation for the ferret being in the camp after lights out.

"What was the payment?" Tommy insisted.

Fritz Number One straightened up suddenly, leaning back against the wall of the hut as if Tommy had thrust a weapon into his chest. He shook his head. He was breathing hard, as if he'd just sprinted some distance.

"Do not ask me this question, Mr. Hart! I cannot say more.

Please, I am begging you now, my life depends on it, other lives, as well as my own, but I cannot say to you more of this matter."

Tommy could see tears in the corner of the ferret's eyes.

His face had turned a wan, gray color, like the sky overhead, the sickly, agonizingly fearful appearance of a man who can see his own death lurking close by and beckoning. Tommy was surprised, and he took a small step back, as if the look on Fritz Number One's face scared him as well.

"All right," he said.

"All right for now. I'll keep my mouth shut. For now. No promises for later, but for now, we'll keep this between ourselves."

The German quivered again and broke into a grateful smile filled with reprieve. He seized Tommy's hand and shook it hard.

"I shall never forget this kindness, Lieutenant Hart.

Never!"

The ferret took a step back, away from Tommy.

"I will be in your debt. Lieutenant Hart! I will not forget this."

And with that, he lurched away, hurrying out into the dank morning.

Tommy watched Fritz Number One's head twisting about, trying to ascertain whether he'd been observed in this conversation. On the one hand. Tommy knew he had just acquired enough information to blackmail Fritz Number One into doing whatever he wanted, probably for the duration of the war. But on the other, he was left more filled with questions than ever before. And one question that dominated all the others: What was the payment for the weapon that was turned on Vic? He watched as Fritz Number One scurried across the exercise yard, and wondered who else might have the answer to that question. He glanced down at his wristwatch, felt a pang of loneliness crease across his heart. For a single second, he wondered what time it was back home in Vermont, and he had trouble remembering whether it was earlier or later. Then he dismissed this unfair thought when he realized that if he did not hurry, he would be late for the beginning of that morning's proceedings.

The throngs of kriegies were already surrounding the makeshift theater and jamming the aisles as Tommy arrived for the trial's start. As he'd feared, everyone else was in place. The tribunal behind their table at the front, the prosecution seated and waiting impatiently, Lincoln Scott and Hugh Renaday in their chairs, Hugh wearing a concerned look.

Off to the side, Hauptmann Visser was smoking one of his thin, brown cigarettes, while the stenographer next to him nervously fiddled with his pencil. Tommy picked his way down the center, stepping over feet and outstretched legs, stumbling once as he tripped over a pair of flight boots, thinking to himself that his solitary entrance was much less dramatic than when he had joined the two others and walked in formation.

"You've kept everyone waiting, lieutenant," Colonel MacNamara said coldly, as he stepped to the front of the room.

"Zero eight hundred means precisely that. In the future…" Lieutenant Tommy interrupted the Senior American Officer.

"I apologize, sir. But I had business crucial to the defense."

"That may well be, lieutenant, but-" Tommy interrupted MacNamara again, which he was absolutely certain would infuriate the commanding officer. He didn't really care.

"My first and primary duty is to Lieutenant Scott, sir. If my absence caused a delay, well, then it equally demonstrates vividly, once again, sir, the unfortunate rush that this proceeding takes place within.

Based on information that has just been made available to me, I would once again renew my objections to the trial continuing, and would request additional time to investigate."

"What information?" MacNamara demanded.

Tommy sauntered to the front of the prosecution's table, and picked up the homemade blade that Scott had fashioned.

He turned it over once or twice in his hand, then set it down again, looking up at MacNamara.

"It has to do with the murder weapon, colonel."

Out of the corner of his eye. Tommy saw Visser stiffen in his seat.

The German dropped his cigarette to the floor, and ground it beneath the heel of his boot.

"What about the murder weapon, lieutenant?"

"I'm not really at liberty to speak openly, colonel. Not without considerable further investigation."

Captain Townsend rose from his seat with liquid confidence in his voice.

"Your Honor, I believe that the defense seeks delay simply for delay's sake. I believe that absent some real showing on their part of dire necessity, that we should continue-" MacNamara held up his hand.

"You are correct, captain.

Lieutenant Hart, take your seat. Call your next witness. Captain

Townsend. And Lieutenant Hart, do not be late again."

Tommy shrugged, and took his place. Lincoln Scott and Hugh Renaday both leaned over toward him.

"What was that all about?" Scott demanded.

"You find out something helpful?"

Tommy whispered his reply "Maybe. I found out something.

But I'm not sure how it helps."

Scott leaned back.

"Great," he muttered under his breath.

He picked up the stub of a pencil from the rough table and tapped it against the wooden surface. Scott fixed his eyes on the morning's first witness, another officer from Hut 101, who was being sworn in by MacNamara.

Tommy checked his notes. This was one of the witnesses who saw Scott in the hut's central corridor on the night of the murder. He knew what was coming was the worst sort of testimony.

An officer with no particular connection to either Scott or Trader Vic, who would tell the court that he saw the black airman outside his bunk room, maneuvering through the darkness with the aid of a single candle.

What the witness would describe were all actions that any man might have performed.

Taken independently, they were benign. But in the context of that murderous night, they were damning.

Tommy inhaled deeply. He had no idea how to assault this testimony.

Mostly, because it was true. He knew that within a few moments, the prosecution would have painted an important brush stroke of their case-that on the night of Trader Vic's death, Lincoln Scott was out and about, not pathetically shivering in his bunk beneath a thin, gray German-issue blanket, dreaming of home, food, and freedom like almost all the captive men in the South Compound.

He bit his lower lip, as Captain Townsend slowly began to question the witness. In that second, he thought the trial a bit like standing in the sand on the beach, just where the froth of the surf plays out, right at the point where the nearly spent force of the wave can still pull and tug at the sand, making everything unstable and unsteady beneath the feet. The prosecution's case was like the undertow, slowly dragging everything solid away, and right at that moment, he had no real idea how to put Lincoln Scott back on firm earth.

Shortly after midday, Walker Townsend called Major Clark to the witness stand. He was the final name on the prosecution's list of witnesses and, Tommy suspected, would be the most dramatic. For all of Clark's blustery anger. Tommy still suspected him of having a streak of composure that would emerge on the stand. It would be the same sort of composure that had allowed the major to steer his crippled, burning B-17, with only a single engine functioning, to a safe landing in a farmer's field in the Alsace, saving the lives of most of his crew.

When his name was called out by the Virginian, Major Clark rose swiftly from his seat at the prosecution's table.

Back ramrod straight, he crossed the theater quickly, seizing the Bible that was proffered and swearing loudly to tell the truth. He then sat in the witness chair, eagerly awaiting Townsend's first question.

Tommy watched the major closely. There are some men, he thought, who managed to wear their imprisonment with a rigid, military sense of decorum; Clark's uniform was worn, patched, and tattered in numerous places after eighteen months at Stalag Luft Thirteen, but the way it draped on his bantamweight frame made it seem as if it were newly cleaned and pressed. Major Clark was a small man, with a hard face, humorless and stiff, and there was little doubt in Tommy's mind that he was a man who had narrowed his course through the world down into the twin requirements of duty and bravery.

He would acquire the one and perform the other with a complete singleness of purpose.

"Major Clark," Captain Townsend asked, "tell the court how it was that you came to this prisoner-of-war camp?"

The major bent forward, ready to begin his explanation, just as every other kriegie witness had, when Tommy arose.

"Objection!" he said.

Colonel MacNamara eyed him.

"And what might that be?" he inquired cynically.

"Major Clark is a member of the prosecution. I would think that fact alone would preclude him from testifying in this matter, colonel."

MacNamara shook his head.

"Probably back home, yes.

But here, due to the exigencies and uniqueness of our situation, I will allow both sides some latitude in who they call to the stand. Major

Clark's role in the case was more akin to investigating officer.

Objection is overruled."

"Then I have a second objection, colonel."

MacNamara looked slightly exasperated.

"And that would be what, lieutenant?"

"I would object to Major Clark describing the history of his arrival here. Major Clark's courage on the battlefield is not at issue. The only point it serves is to create an exaggerated sense of credibility for the major. But, as the colonel is well aware, brave men are capable of lying, just as easily as cowards are, sir."

MacNamara glared at Tommy. Major Clark's face was set and hard. Tommy knew the major would take what he had just said as an insult, which was precisely what he had intended.

The colonel took a deep breath before replying.

"Do not reach beyond your grasp, lieutenant. Objection remains overruled. Captain, please continue."

Walker Townsend smiled briefly.

"I would think that the tribunal might censure the lieutenant, sir, for impugning the integrity of a brother officer…"

"Just continue, captain," MacNamara growled.

Townsend nodded, and turned back to Major Clark.

"Tell us, please, major, how you happened to arrive here."

Tommy sat back, listening closely, as Major Clark described the bombing raid that resulted in his plane crash-landing. Clark was neither boasting nor modest. What he was, was accurate, disciplined, and precise. At one point, he declined to describe the B-17's ability to maneuver on one engine, because, he said, that information was technical and might serve the enemy. He said this and gestured toward Heinrich Visser. One thing did emerge that Tommy found intriguing, if not critical. It turned out that Visser was the major's first interrogator, before being released into the camp. Visser had been the man asking questions that Clark refused to answer, questions about the capabilities of the aircraft and strategies of the air corps. These had been standard questions, and all fliers knew to answer solely with their name, rank, and serial number. They also knew that the men who demanded these answers were security police, regardless of how they identified themselves. But what Tommy found interesting was that Clark, and therefore the other high-ranking members of the American camp, were well aware of Visser's dual allegiances.

Tommy snuck a glance at the one-armed German. Visser was listening intently to Major Clark.

"So, major," Walker Townsend suddenly boomed, "did there come a time when, as part of your official duties, you were called to investigate the murder of Captain Vincent Bedford?"

Tommy swung his eyes over to the witness. Here it comes, he thought to himself.

"Yes. Correct."

"Tell us how that came about."

For a moment. Major Clark turned toward the defense table, fixing

Tommy, then Lincoln Scott, with a harsh, unforgiving glare. Then, slowly, he launched into his story, lifting his voice, so that it coursed past Captain Townsend, and reached out to every kriegie in the audience, and all those hanging by the windows and doors, Clark described being awakened in the predawn hours by the ferret's alarm-he did not identify Fritz Number One as the ferret who discovered the body-and how he had carefully entered the Abort and first seen Vincent

Bedford's corpse. He told the assembly that the very first and only suspect had been Lincoln Scott, based on the prior bad blood, animosity, and fights between the two men. He also told how he had spotted the telltale crimson blood spatters on the toes of Scott's flight boots and on the left-hand shoulder and sleeve of his leather jacket, when the black airman had been confronted in Commandant Von Reiter's office. The other elements of the case, Clark said, fell into place rapidly. Trader Vic's roommates had told of Scott's construction of the murder weapon, and informed him about the hiding place beneath the floorboards where it had been concealed.

Clark stitched each element of the prosecution's case into a single tapestry. He spoke at length, steadily, persuasively, with bull doglike determination, as he gave context to all the other witnesses.

Tommy did not object to the major's words, nor to the damning portrait he created. He knew one thing: The major, for all his stiffness and military rigidity, was a fighter, much like Lincoln Scott. If Tommy battled him on every point, with a series of objections, he would respond like an athlete; each little struggle would only serve to make him stronger and more determined to reach the goal.

But cross-examination was a different matter.

As Major Clark finished his testimony. Tommy lay in wait, feeling for all the world like a cobra in the high grass. He knew what he was required to do. One single weakness in the steady, convincing story the major told. Just attack that one critical point and expose it for a lie, then the rest will crumble. At least that was what he hoped, and he knew where he was going to strike. Had known since the first minute he'd examined the evidence.

He stole a sideways glance over at Scott. The black airman was fingering the stub of the pencil again. Tommy watched as Scott suddenly took the pencil and wrote on one of the precious scrap pieces of paper the single word: Why.

It was a good question. Tommy thought. One that still eluded him.

"One last question. Major Clark," Walker Townsend was saying.

"Do you have any personal animosity toward Lieutenant Scott, or toward members of the Negro race, in general?"

"Objection!"

Colonel MacNamara nodded toward Tommy Hart.

"The lieutenant is correct, captain," he admonished Townsend.

"The question is self-serving and irrelevant."

Captain Townsend smiled.

"Well, perhaps self-serving, colonel," he responded.

"But hardly irrelevant, I would wager."

He said this as he turned toward the audience, playing the moment for the assembled kriegies. It was not necessary for Major Clark to have answered the question. Merely by asking it, Townsend had answered it for him.

"Do you have other questions, captain?" MacNamara asked.

"No sir!" Townsend replied, snapping his words like a salute.

"Your witness, lieutenant."

Tommy rose slowly, moving out from behind the defense's table with patience. He looked over at Major Clark and saw that the witness was sitting forward in his seat, eagerly anticipating the first question.

"Do you have, major, any particular expertise in criminal investigations?"

Major Clark paused, before responding.

"No, lieutenant. But every senior officer in the army is accustomed to investigating disputes and conflicts between men under our command. We are trained to determine the truth in these situations. A murder, while unusual, is merely an extension of a dispute. The process is the same."

"Quite an extension, I'd say."

Major Clark shrugged.

"So, you have no police training?" Tommy continued.

"You've never been taught how to examine a crime scene, have you?"

"No. Correct."

"And you do not have any special expertise in the collection and interpretation of evidence, do you?"

Major Clark hesitated, then answered forcefully.

"I have no special expertise, no. But this case did not require any.

It was cut and dried, right from the start."

"So you say."

"Correct, again, lieutenant. So I say."

Major Clark's face had reddened slightly, and his feet were no longer flat on the floor, but lifted slightly at the heels, almost as if he were about to spring up. Tommy took a moment to read the major's face and body, and he thought the man wary but confident. Tommy moved over to Scott and Renaday and whispered to the Canadian, "Let me have those drawings, now."

Hugh pulled out from beneath the table the three crime scene sketches that Phillip Pryce's Irish artist friend had drawn. He handed them to Tommy.

"Nail the pompous bastard," he whispered, perhaps just loud enough for any kriegie with keen hearing to understand.

"Major Clark," Tommy said loudly, "I am going to show you three drawings. The first shows the wounds in Captain Bedford's neck and hands. The second shows how his body was located in the Abort stall.

The third is a diagram of the Abort itself. Please examine these, and tell me if you think they fairly represent what you yourself saw on the morning following the murder."

Walker Townsend was on his feet.

"I'd like to see those," he demanded.

Tommy thrust the three drawings at Major Clark, then gestured toward the captain.

"You can look over his shoulder, captain. But I do not recall your presence at the Abort crime scene, so I would question your ability to determine the accuracy of these pictures."

Townsend scowled and walked behind Major Clark. Both men examined each drawing carefully. Tommy saw Captain Townsend bend over slightly, and start to speak in the major's ear.

"Don't speak to the witness!" he shouted. His words creased the still air of the makeshift courtroom. Tommy stepped forward angrily, pointing a finger in Townsend's face.

"You have had your opportunity with the witness, and now it is my turn for cross-examination. Don't try to advise him in the middle of my cross!"

Townsend's eyes were narrow, staring at Tommy Hart. Into this instant fury. Colonel MacNamara interjected himself, taking Tommy slightly by surprise by landing squarely on his side.

"The lieutenant is correct, captain. We need to maintain correct trial procedure as much as humanly possible. You will have a second opportunity under redirect. Now step back, and let the lieutenant continue, although, Mr. Hart, I'd like to see those drawings myself."

Tommy nodded, handing them up to MacNamara, who also took his time to inspect them.

"They fit with my recollection," he said.

"Now, Major Clark, answer the question."

Clark shrugged.

"I would concur, colonel. They seem accurate enough."

"Take your time," Tommy said.

"I wouldn't want there to be some obvious error."

Clark glanced at the drawings again.

"They appear quite skillfully drawn," he said.

"My compliments to the artist."

Tommy took the three drawings, then held them up above his head, so that the audience could see what he was speaking about.

"That won't be necessary," MacNamara growled, speaking before Walker Townsend had a moment to object.

Tommy smiled.

"Of course," he said to the colonel. Then he turned back to Major

Clark.

"Major, based on your examination of the crime scene in the Abort, based on your inspection of Trader Vic's body, and based on your collection of the evidence in this case, would you please tell the court precisely how you contend this particular murder took place?"

Tommy pivoted, leaning back against the defense table, half-sitting, crossing his arms and waiting for the major to tell his tale, trying to impose an attitude of disbelief in his stance. Internally, he was nervous about the question. Phillip Pryce had long before burned into him the credo that no one ever asks a question in a trial that they do not know the response to, and here, he was asking Scott's main accuser to take free rein and describe Trader Vic's death. This, he knew, was something of a gamble. But he counted on Major Clark's ego and pugnacity, and knew that the rooster like officer would walk into the trap he'd set. He suspected the major didn't see the danger in the crime scene sketches. And, Tommy presumed, the major had no idea that waiting in the wings was Nicholas Fenelli, the mortuary man and doctor-in-training, who would contradict everything Clark was about to say when Tommy called him to the stand and showed him the same pictures just as he had already done in Fenelli's bare-bones infirmary. And in this conflict, Tommy thought, Scott's insistent denials would take force and suddenly gain the wind of truth Clark paused, then said, "You want me to describe the killing?"

"Exactly. Just tell us how it happened. Based on your investigation, of course."

Walker Townsend started to rise, then sat back down. He wore a small grin on his face.

"Very well," Major Clark responded.

"This is what I believe took place-" Tommy interrupted.

"A belief based on your interpretation of the evidence, correct?"

Major Clark snorted.

"Yes. Exactly. May I continue?"

"Of course."

"Well, Captain Bedford was, as everyone knows, a businessman.

I contend that Lieutenant Scott saw Bedford arise from his bunk in the middle of the night in question. Bedford was clearly taking a risk going out after lights out, but he was a brave and determined man, especially when he saw a substantial reward. Moments later, using the light of a candle, Scott trailed after him, stalking him, his knife concealed beneath his coat, not knowing that he'd been spotted by others. I suppose if he'd known that, he might have changed his mind-" "Well," Tommy interjected, "that would be a guess on your part.

Right? Not part of what the evidence tells you?"

Major Clark nodded.

"Of course. You are correct, lieutenant.

I shall try to restrict myself from further suppositions."

"That would be helpful. Now," Tommy said, "he trails him outside…"

"Precisely, lieutenant. Scott trailed Bedford into the Abort, where they confronted each other. Because they were inside that building, no sound they made when they fought penetrated into the rooms in Huts 101 or 102."

"That would be a wonderfully convenient absence of noise," Tommy interjected again. He couldn't help himself.

The major's pompous know-it-all tone of voice was too irritating to let pass. Major Clark scowled back at him.

"Lieutenant, whether it was convenient or not, I wouldn't know. I do know that questioning of men in the adjacent huts revealed no one who heard the noise from the fight. It was late. People were asleep."

"Yes," Tommy said. He wanted to say "thank you."

"Please continue."

"Using the blade he'd fashioned, Scott stabbed Captain Bedford in the throat. Then he thrust the murdered man back into the sixth stall, where the body was subsequently discovered.

Then, unaware his clothes were stained with blood, he made his way back to the bunk room. End of story, lieutenant.

Cut and dried, like I said."

Major Clark smiled.

"Next question," he added.

Tommy straightened up.

"Show me," he said.

"Show you?"

"Show all of us how this fight happened, major. Take the knife. You be Scott. I'll be Bedford."

Major Clark rose eagerly. Captain Townsend thrust the knife toward him.

The major gestured at Tommy.

"Stand here," he said. Then he took a position a few feet away, holding the knife in his hand as one would hold a sword. Then, in slow motion, he made a fake slash at Tommy's throat.

"Of course," the major said, "you are considerably taller than Captain

Bedford, and I'm not as tall as Lieutenant Scott, so…"

"Maybe we should reverse positions?" Tommy said.

"Fine," Major Clark responded. He handed Tommy the knife.

"Like so?" Tommy asked, mimicking the mannerisms that the major had just displayed.

"Yes. That would be accurate," the major said. He wore a smile as he portrayed the victim. Tommy turned toward Captain Townsend.

"Okay by you, Mr. Prosecutor?"

"Looks fine," the Virginian said.

Tommy Hart gestured back toward the witness chair.

"Okay," he said, as Major Clark resumed his seat.

"And after slashing Trader Vic's throat, Scott pushed him back into the stall, correct? And then he departed the Abort Is that how you see it?"

"Yes," the major said loudly.

"Precisely."

"Then tell me, how does he get blood on the back of the left-hand side of his jacket?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How does he get blood on the left-hand back side of his flight jacket?" Tommy walked over to the prosecution's table, picked up Scott's leather flight jacket, and held it up, displaying it for the court to see.

Major Clark hesitated. The redness had returned to his face.

"I don't understand the question," he said.

Tommy pounced.

"It would seem most simple, major," he said icily.

"There's blood on the back of his coat. How does it get there? In your entire testimony, describing the crime, and now, in acting it out for this court, at no point do you ever suggest Lieutenant Scott turned his back on Bedford. How does that blood get there?"

Major Clark shifted about in his seat.

"He may have had to lift the body up, before shoving it back in the stall. He would use his shoulder, and that might have put the blood there."

"You're not an expert at these things, right? You've never really been taught anything about crime scenes. Or blood patterns, correct?"

"I've already answered that."

Walker Townsend rose to his feet.

"Your Honor," he said, "I think the defense is " Colonel MacNamara held up his hand.

"If you have some problem, you can bring it out on redirect. For now, let the lieutenant continue."

"Thank you, colonel," Tommy said. He was surprised by MacNamara's decisiveness.

"Okay, Major Clark. Let's suppose he did have to lift the body, although that's not what you said the first time through. Is the defendant right-handed or left-handed?"

Clark hesitated, then replied.

"I don't know."

"Well, if he opted to use his left shoulder for this heavy labor, wouldn't that suggest to you he was left-handed?"

"Yes."

Tommy spun about, suddenly facing Lincoln Scott.

"Are you left-handed, lieutenant?" he abruptly, loudly, demanded.

Lincoln Scott, wearing a small smile of his own, reacted swiftly, before Walker Townsend had the opportunity to object.

He thrust himself to his feet, and shouted out: "No sir!

Right-handed, sir!" And then he made a fist with his right hand and held it up in front of him.

Tommy pivoted again, abruptly facing Major Clark.

"So," he demanded sharply.

"Maybe the crime didn't happen that way. Precisely." He mocked the major's own word with sarcasm in his tone of voice.

"Well," Clark responded, "perhaps not precisely-" Tommy held up his hand, cutting him off.

"That's good enough," he said.

"I wonder what else didn't happen precisely as you suggest. In fact, I wonder if anything happened precisely as you think it did!"

Tommy fairly shouted these last words. Then he shrugged his shoulders and raised his arms in a great questioning gesture, filling the courtroom with the elusive sense that it would be unfair to convict any man without precision.

"No further questions," he said with as much disgust as he could manage.

"Not for this witness!"

He dramatically returned to his seat, making a clattering noise as he sat down. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hauptmann Visser paying rapt attention to the cross-examination. The German wore the same nasty half-smile that Tommy recognized from other moments. Visser whispered something to the stenographer, who quickly scratched down the Hauptmann's words on his sheet of paper.

From his seat next to Tommy, Lincoln Scott whispered, "Nicely done." On the other side, Hugh wrote on his own paper the single name Fenelli, followed by several dark exclamation points. The Canadian policeman knew what was coming, as well, and he wore a similar satisfied smile on his lips.

Behind them, voices were buzzing, as kriegies leaned together, like spectators at a closely played ball game, discussing the action on the field. Colonel MacNamara allowed the excited muttering to continue for a moment, then he banged his makeshift gavel down hard three times. His own face was rigidly set. Not angry, but clearly upset although with the prosecution's flimsiness or Tommy's theatrics was impossible to tell.

"Redirect?" he coldly demanded of Walker Townsend.

The captain from Virginia rose slowly. There was something in the steady, patient way he moved that made Tommy suddenly nervous. He thought the captain should be flying erratically, trying to keep high and level even with one engine out.

Shaking his head, smiling wryly. Captain Townsend stepped forward.

"No sir, we will have no further questions for the major. Thank you, sir."

This got Tommy's attention. The one thing he'd been certain of as he sat down was that Townsend would need to rehabilitate Major Clark's testimony. And he counted on the belief that every effort to make Clark look like he knew what he was talking about would only serve to make his inadequacies as a criminal investigator more obvious. Tommy felt an unexpected fear, not unlike a moment many months earlier inside the Lovely Lydia, making their way home to base one evening when the bomber had been jumped by an unseen fighter and the Focke-Wulf's tracer rounds creased the blue sky beside them. It had taken all the skill his old captain from West Texas possessed to climb into the nearby clouds and elude the threatening fighter.

Then Townsend turned, looking briefly at the defense, then out at the body of airmen crammed into the theater.

"Do you have another witness?" Colonel MacNamara asked.

"Yes, we do, colonel," Captain Townsend said carefully.

"One last witness, and then we will be completed with our case, sir."

Townsend's voice rose quickly, gaining momentum and strength with each word, so that when he finally spoke, it was close to a bellow.

"At this point, sir, the prosecution would call Second Lieutenant Nicholas Fenelli to the witness stand!"

Hugh Renaday blurted out, "What the bloody hell?" Lincoln Scott dropped the pencil to the table, and Tommy Hart's head suddenly reeled, as if he'd stood up too quickly. He could feel the color drain from his cheeks.

"Lieutenant Nicholas Fenelli!" Colonel MacNamara called out.

There was commotion from the crowd of airmen in the audience, as they parted to allow the erstwhile physician to make his way forward. Tommy spun about in his seat, and saw Fenelli moving steadily down the center aisle of the theater, his eyes directly on the witness chair, scrupulously avoiding contact with Tommy's.

"What the hell's this?" Renaday whispered nearby.

"A damn ambush!"

Tommy watched as Fenelli approached. He had obviously spiffed up his uniform as much as possible, shaved with a precious new blade, combed his stringy black hair, and trimmed his pencil-thin mustache. At the front of the theater, Fenelli saluted briskly, then reached out for the Bible, on which to swear to tell the whole truth. Tommy felt momentarily mesmerized by the medic's appearance, almost as if the scene in front of him were playing out in slow motion. But as Fenelli raised his hand to swear, Tommy managed to shake the surprise from his body, and he leapt up, slamming a fist down onto the table in front of him as he did so.

"Objection! Objection! Objection!"

The man being sworn in paused, still not looking in Tommy's direction.

Walker Townsend moved to the front of the tribunal, and Colonel

MacNamara leaned forward in his seat.

"State the basis for your objection, lieutenant," MacNamara said coldly.

Tommy took a deep breath.

"This individual's name appears nowhere on the prosecution's list of witnesses. Your Honor! Therefore, he cannot be called to the stand without the defense having ample opportunity to discuss his testimony "

Walker Townsend half-turned toward Tommy, as he interrupted.

"But Lieutenant Hart, you are disingenuous! Why, you are completely familiar with Mr. Fenelli's connection to the case, and you have interviewed him at length! In fact, it is my belief you intended to call him to the stand yourself."

"Is that true, Mr. Hart?" Colonel MacNamara demanded.

Tommy scrambled inwardly. He felt adrift. He had no idea why the prosecution would call Fenelli, especially knowing what the medic would say about the nature of the wounds suffered by Trader Vic and the type of weapon that inflicted them. But something was deadly and wrong, and Tommy fought against the unknown.

"It is true that I interviewed Lieutenant Fenelli. It is true that I considered calling him…"

"Then I fail to see how you can object, lieutenant," MacNamara said stiffly.

"Sir, it remains true he is not on the prosecution's list! This fact alone should preclude him from taking the stand."

"We just went over this issue with Major Clark, lieutenant!

Because of our unusual circumstances here, the court feels it critical to allow both sides some substantial leeway, while still maintaining the important integrity of the process."

"This is unfair, sir!"

"I think not, lieutenant. Mr. Fenelli, please take your seat!

Captain Townsend, please continue!"

For an instant, Tommy swayed dizzily. Then he slumped back into his own chair. He didn't dare look to the side at Lincoln Scott or Hugh Renaday, though he could hear the Canadian muttering obscenities.

Scott, however, sat stock-still, with both of his palms down on the table, the veins in the backs of his hands standing out rigidly.