Hart’s War

Chapter Sixteen

The morning count seemed interminable. Every mistake, every delay, every time a ferret retraced his steps down the lines of Allied airmen mumbling numbers, the men cursed and raged and held their positions, as if by standing even more still they could somehow hurry the process.

The ever-erratic weather had changed once again; as the filmy gray of the early morning burned away around them, the sun rose eagerly into a deepening blue sky, throwing warmth over the impatient kriegies. When the dismissal finally came, the formations broke apart rapidly and crowds of men streamed toward the theater, vying for the best seats in the courtroom.

Tommy watched the flow of men and realized that the entire camp would be gathered at the trial that day. The excited kriegies would shoehorn themselves into every available space in the theater building. They would hang from the windows and crowd forward to the doors, trying to find a spot where they could both see and hear. He stood for a moment, probably the only man in the entire camp feeling no hurry, no urgency.

He was a little unsettled and perhaps more than a little nervous about what he would do and say that day and wondering whether any of it would have the single necessary effect of saving Lincoln Scott's life. The black flier stood at his side, also watching the camp disperse in the direction of the trial, his face impassive, wearing the iron look that he almost always adopted in public, but with his eyes darting about, taking in the same things that Tommy saw.

"Well, Tommy," Scott said slowly.

"I suppose the show must go on."

Hugh Renaday also stood nearby. But the Canadian had his head turned skyward, his gaze sweeping the wide blue horizon. After a moment, he spoke softly.

"On a day like this, visibility unlimited, you know, if you just look up for a long enough time, you can almost forget where you are."

Both Tommy's and Lincoln Scott's eyes turned up, following the Canadian's. After a second's silence, Scott laughed out loud.

"Damn it, I think you're almost right." He paused, then added, "It's almost like for just a couple of heartbeats you can kid yourself that you're free again."

"It would be nice," Tommy said.

"Even the illusion of freedom."

"It would be nice," Scott repeated softly.

"It's one of those rare things in life where the lie is far more encouraging than the truth."

Then all three men lowered their eyes, back to the earth and the wire and the guard towers and the dogs-the constant reminders of how fragile their lives were.

"It's time to go," Tommy said.

"But we're not in a hurry. In fact, let's show up a minute late.

Exactly one minute. Just to piss off that tight ass MacNamara. Hell, let 'em start without us…"

This made the other two laugh, even if admittedly not a particularly sound strategy. As they crossed the assembly yard, all three men suddenly heard the start-up of construction noise, coming from the nearby thick forest, on the far side of the wire. A distant whistle, some shouts, and the rata-tat of hammers and the ripping sound of handsaws.

"They start those poor bastards early, don't they?" Scott asked rhetorically.

"And then they work them late. Makes you glad you weren't born a Russian," he said. Then he smiled wryly.

"You know, there's probably a joke in that somewhere. Do you suppose right now one of those poor sobs is saying he's glad he wasn't born black in America? After all, the damn Germans are just working them to death. Me? I've got to worry about my own countrymen shooting me."

He shook his head and continued to stride forward, at a determined pace. As they marched across the yard, at one point the black flier glanced over toward the two white men and grinned as he said, "Don't look so glum. Tommy, Hugh. I've been looking forward to this day since I was first accused of this crime. Usually lynchings don't work this way for black folks. Usually we don't get the chance to stand up in front of everyone and tell them how goddamn wrong they are. Usually we're just beaten down in silence and strung up real quiet and with hardly a mouse squeak of any protest. Well, that's not what's going to happen today. Not in this lynching."

Tommy knew this was true.

The night before, after the completion of Visser's testimony, the three men had returned to Hut 101 and sat around the bunk room. Hugh had fixed a modest meal, more of the processed meat fried alongside a canned vegetable paste from a Red Cross parcel, creating a taste that was somewhere between grease and stew and like nothing they had ever experienced before, which was, on the whole, a positive thing. It was the sort of concoction that would have been revolting back in the States, but there, inside Stalag Luft Thirteen, bordered on the gourmet.

Between bites. Tommy had said, "Scott, we need to be sure you're prepared for tomorrow. Especially for cross-examination…"

And Scott had replied, as he mouthed some of Hugh's invention, his hunger apparently restored by the prospect of testifying, "Tommy, I've been preparing for tomorrow for the entirety of my life."

So instead of talking about the two knives, the bloodstains, and Trader Vic's racist baiting. Tommy had suddenly asked Lincoln Scott:

"Lincoln, tell me something. Back home, when you were growing up, and it was a Saturday afternoon, the sun was shining and it was warm and you didn't have anything that anyone was making you do-you know, chores finished, homework finished-what would you do with yourself?"

Lincoln Scott had stopped eating, slightly taken aback.

"You mean, free time? When I was a kid?"

"That's right. Time to yourself."

"My preacher-daddy and my schoolteacher-mother didn't really believe in free time," he said, smiling."

"Idle hands are the Devil's playground!" I heard that more than once.

There was always time to work at something that was going to make me smarter or stronger or-" But. Tommy had interrupted.

Scott had nodded.

"There's always a but." That's the one thing in life you can count on." He had burst into a small laugh.

"You know what I liked to do? I'd sneak down to the freight yards.

There was a big water tower down there, and I knew just how to climb up on it, so that I could get a view of the whole place. You see what I'm saying? From where I would perch, I could see the whole switching system. It's called a roundhouse. Train after train, rattling through the yard, tons of iron being moved about by someone throwing those electric switches, moving cattle one way to the stockyards, and shifting corn and potatoes onto a track heading east, just moving out in time to miss the steel carriers coming in from the mountains. It was like a great elaborate dance, and I thought the men who ran the yards were like God's angels, moving everything through the universe according to a great, unwritten plan. All that speed and weight and commerce coming together and being sent out, never ending, never stopping, never even pausing for a breath of air. Man's greatest works on constant display. The modern world.

Progress at my feet."

The men had remained silent for a moment, before Hugh had shaken his head.

"It was sports for me," he had said.

"Hockey with the other lads on a frozen pond. What about you. Tommy?

It was your question. What did you do when you had the time?"

Tommy had smiled.

"What I liked to do is what landed me here," he had said softly.

"I liked to chart the stars in the heavens. They're different, you know. They make the smallest adjustments for the time of night and the time of the year. Positions change. Some shine more brightly. Others dim, then reemerge. I liked to look up at the constellations and see the endlessness of the night…"

The others had remained quiet, and Tommy had shrugged.

"But I should have had another hobby. Like tying flies or playing hockey, like you, Hugh. Because when the air corps found out I could perform celestial navigation, well, next thing I knew I was in a bomber, flying hell for leather above the Mediterranean. Of course, most all our sorties were in the daylight, so the usefulness of my ability to chart a course using the stars was, ah, limited. But that's the air corps way of thinking and that's what landed me here."

Both men had laughed. To make a joke about the army was always worth a laugh. But after a few seconds, the smiles had seeped away and they grew silent until Lincoln Scott had said, "Well, maybe you'll be able to navigate us out of here one day."

Hugh had nodded.

"That would be a happy day" he had said, which was the last time they talked of that most difficult of subjects, though throughout the long night in the bunk room that thought had never strayed far from Tommy Hart's imagination, as sleep eluded him and his mind increasingly centered on the courtroom and the drama that awaited them in the morning.

The Senior American Officer was drumming his fingers against the table, doing little to conceal his irritation as Tommy, Hugh, and the defendant picked their way through the audience.

The center aisle was so congested with kriegies that any attempt to enter in formation, as they had before, would have been thwarted by the overflow crowd, which barely had enough room to squeeze tightly together and let the three men pass. Murmurs, whispers, and a few softly spoken comments flowed behind them like the modest white frothy wake behind a sailboat. Tommy did not listen to the words, but took note of the different tones, some angry, some encouraging, some merely confused.

He took a quick glance at Commandant Von Reiter, who now occupied a seat just to the left of Heinrich Visser. The German commander was rocking slightly in his seat, grinning faintly. Visser, however, was stone-faced, impassive.

Tommy was still unsure whether Visser had helped or hurt the case, but he had done one important service, which was to remind all the kriegies who the real enemy was, which, on balance, Tommy thought, was better than anything else he could have wished for. The problem that remained was to make the men of Stalag Luft Thirteen remember that Scott was on their side. One of them. And that, Tommy thought, would be difficult enough and maybe impossible.

"You are supposed to be in position, ready for trial, along with the rest of us, Mr. Hart," Colonel MacNamara said stiffly.

Tommy did not reply to this statement, but merely said, "We are ready now to proceed, colonel."

"Then please do so," MacNamara said. His words were singularly cool.

"The defense at this time would call First Lieutenant Lincoln Scott of the 332nd Fighter Group to the witness stand!"

Tommy said as forcefully as he could, his own voice lifted up over the heads of all the gathered men.

Scott pushed himself out of his seat at the defense table and crossed the space to the witness chair in three great strides. He rapidly seized the Bible offered to him, swore under oath to tell the truth, and thrust himself into the seat.

He looked up toward Tommy with the eagerness of the boxer he was, awaiting the sound of the bell.

"Lieutenant Scott, tell us how you arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen."

"I was shot down. Like everyone else."

"Then how was it that you were shot down?"

"A Focke-Wulf got on my tail and I couldn't shake him before he got off a lucky shot. End of story."

"Not exactly," Tommy said.

"Let's try this differently:

Did there come a time when, having completed your regular patrol and enroute to your base, you heard a stricken and crippled B-17 broadcast a call for help across an open air channel?"

Scott paused, and nodded.

"Yes."

"A desperate call?"

"I suppose so, Mr. Hart. He was all alone and had two engines out and half his tail stabilizer shot away and was in trouble. Big trouble."

"Two engines out and he was under attack?"

"Yes."

"By a half-dozen enemy fighters?"

"Yes."

Tommy paused. He understood that every man in the audience knew exactly what the men in that bomber's chances had been at the moment they pleaded for help from anyone who might hear them. As close to zero as a flier could get. Death for them was only seconds away.

"And you and your wing man, the two of you, you went to this crippled plane's aid?"

"That is what we did."

"You didn't have to?"

"No," Scott replied.

"I suppose not technically, Mr. Hart.

The plane belonged to a group that was not one we were assigned to protect. But you and I know that that is only a technical consideration. Of course we had to help. So, to suggest that we didn't have to, well, that's a foolish statement, Mr. Hart. We did not think we had a choice in the matter. We simply attacked."

"I see. You didn't think you had a choice. Two against six.

And how much ammunition did you have remaining when you dove into the attack?"

"A few seconds. Just enough for a couple of bursts." Scott paused, then added, "I don't see why I need to go through this, Mr. Hart. It hasn't got anything to do with the charges here."

"We'll get to those, lieutenant. But everyone else who's taken the stand has explained how they managed to land here in this camp, and so will you. So, you attacked a vastly superior enemy force all the time knowing you did not have enough ammunition to make more than one or two passes?"

"That is correct. We both managed to down a Focke-Wulf on the first attack, and we hoped that would draw them off. It didn't work out that way."

"What happened?"

"Two fighters tangled with us, two pursued the bomber."

"And what happened next?"

"We managed to scare off the two, by getting around behind them. With the last of my ammunition I shot down another.

Then we went after the remaining fighters."

"Without ammunition?"

"Well, it had worked before."

"What happened this time?"

"I got shot down."

"Your wing man?"

"He died."

Tommy paused, letting this sink in to the audience.

"The B-17?"

"He made it home. Safe and sound."

"Who flies in the 332nd?"

"Men from all over the States."

"And what distinguishes you?"

"We are volunteers. No draftees."

"What else?"

"We are all Negroes. Trained at Tuskegee, Alabama."

"Has any bomber being protected by the 332nd Fighter Group been lost to enemy fighter action?"

"Not yet."

"Why is that?"

Scott hesitated. He had kept his eyes directly on Tommy throughout the exchange, and they did not waver now, save for one wide look, where

Scott took in the expanse of the audience, before returning to fix Tommy with his singular, rigid stare.

"We had all agreed, when we first got our wings. Made a rule. A credo, you might say. No white boy we were assigned to protect was going to die."

Tommy paused, letting this statement reverberate above the silent crowd in the courtroom.

"Now, when you arrived here," Tommy continued, "did you make friends with any other kriegie?"

"No."

"None?"

"That's right."

"Why is that?"

"I had never had a white friend. Lieutenant Hart. I did not think I needed to start here."

"And now? Do you have any friends now, Lieutenant Scott?"

He hesitated again, shrugged slightly, and said, "Well, Mr. Hart, I suppose that I would now consider yourself and Flying Officer

Renaday to be somewhat closer to that category."

"And that would be it?"

"Yes."

"Now, Captain Vincent Bedford…"

"I hated him. He hated me. The color of my skin seemed to be the basis for that hatred, Mr. Hart, but I suspect it went further.

When he looked at me, he did not see a single man thrust into the same circumstances as he was. He saw an enemy that went back centuries. A far greater enemy than any German we might be at war with. And I, I must admit, unfortunately, saw much the same in him. He was the man who enslaved, tortured, and worked my ancestors to death. It was like being confronted by a nightmare that has not only afflicted yourself, but your father and your grandfather and every generation that went before you."

"Did you kill Vincent Bedford?"

"No. I did not! I would have gladly fought Vincent Bedford, and if, in that fight, he should have died, then I would not have been saddened. But would I have stalked him through the night, as these men suggest, and crept up and attacked him from behind like some sort of weak and reprehensible coward? No sir! I would not now, not ever, do such a thing!"

"You would not?"

Scott was sitting forward, his voice ringing through the courtroom.

"No. But did I rejoice when I heard that someone had? Yes. Yes, I did! Even when they falsely accused me, I still, within myself, was thankful for what had happened, because I believed Vincent Bedford to be evil!"

"Evil?"

"Yes. A man who lives a lie, as he did, is evil."

Tommy stopped then. What he heard in Scott's words went in a direction different from what he thought the black flier meant. But he felt a rush straight through the core of his body, for he had just seen something about Vincent Bedford that he doubted anyone else saw, with the possible exception of the man who murdered him. For a second.

Tommy paused, almost swaying as he was buffeted by thoughts. Then he scrambled, turning back to face Scott, who eagerly awaited the next question.

"You heard Hauptmann Visser suggest that you assisted someone else in the commission of this crime…"

Scott smiled.

"I think everyone here knows how crazy that suggestion was, Mr. Hart.

What were the Hauptmann'1?" own words? Ridiculous and ludicrous. No one in this camp trusts me. There's no one in this camp I trust. Not with some wild conspiracy to murder another officer."

Tommy stole a look toward Visser, whose face had reddened, and who shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Then he turned back to his client.

"Who killed Vincent Bedford?"

"I do not know. I know only who they want to blame."

"And that would be?"

"That would be me."

Scott hesitated one more time, then loudly added, with all the intensity of the preacher calling up to the heavens, "This war is filled with innocent people dying every minute, every second, Mr. Hart.

If this is my time, innocent though I am, then so be it! But I am innocent of these charges and will remain that way until the day I die!"

Tommy let these words fill the courtroom, echoing above the crowd of kriegies. Then he turned to Walker Townsend.

"Your witness," he said quietly.

The captain from Virginia rose, and moved slowly to the center of the courtroom. He had one hand upon his chin, stroking the stubble gathered there, in the almost-universal aspect of a man considering his words very carefully. Across from him. Tommy could see that Scott was poised in his seat, a portrait of both electricity and energy, anticipating the first question from the prosecutor. There was no nervousness in Scott's eyes, only an alertness and a fighter's concentration.

Tommy recognized in that second why Scott must have been such a force behind the stick of his Mustang; the black airman had the unique capacity to focus solely on the fight in front of him. He was a true warrior. Tommy thought, and in his own way far more professional than even the career officers hanging on his every word. The only man in the courtroom who Tommy believed could approach the intensity in which Scott cloaked himself was Heinrich Visser. The difference was that Scott's singleness of purpose came from a righteousness, whereas Visser's was the dedication of the devoted fanatic. In a fair fight, Tommy thought, Scott would be more than a match for Visser and far more capable than Walker Townsend. The problem was, the fight wasn't fair.

"Let us take this slowly and carefully, lieutenant," Townsend started, his words almost caressing.

"Let's talk first about the means…"

"As you wish, captain," Scott replied.

"You do not deny, do you, lieutenant, that the weapon produced by the prosecution was manufactured by yourself?"

"I do not. I did indeed build that knife."

"And you do not deny making the threatening statements, do you?"

"No sir. I do not. I made those statements in an effort to create some space between myself and Captain Bedford. Perhaps by threatening him, he would keep his distance."

"Did this happen?"

"No."

"So we have only your word that these statements were not actual threats, but an effort to… what did you say, 'create distance'?"

"That is correct," Scott answered sharply.

Walker Townsend nodded, but the motion clearly implied that he understood something the opposite of what Scott had said.

"And on the night of Captain Bedford's murder, lieutenant, you do not deny rising from your bunk and being abroad in the corridor of Hut 101, do you?"

"No. That, too, is true."

"All right. Now sir, you do not deny that you have the strength to have lifted the body of Captain Bedford and carried him some distance-"

"I did not do this…" Scott interrupted.

"But do you have the strength, lieutenant?"

Lincoln Scott paused, thought for a second, then replied, "Yes. I do have the strength. And with either arm, captain, and over either shoulder, as well, if I may anticipate your next question."

Walker Townsend smiled slightly, nodding.

"Thank you, lieutenant. You most certainly did. Now, let's discuss motive for a moment. You do not hide your contempt for Captain Bedford, even in death, do you, sir?"

"No. That is correct."

"You would say your life has improved by his death, true?"

It was Scott's turn to smile faintly.

"Well, you probably want to rephrase that question, captain. Is my life better because I no longer have to confront the cracker bastard every day… well, yes. But this is an illusory advantage, captain, when one's days may very well be limited by a firing squad."

Walker Townsend nodded.

"I concede your point, lieutenant.

But you do not deny that every day the two of you existed in this camp together, that Vincent Bedford provided you with a motive to kill him, do you?"

Scott shook his head.

"No, captain, that is not correct.

Captain Bedford's actions provided me with a motive to hate him and what he stood for. They provided me with a motive to confront him, to show him that I would not be cowed or intimidated by his racist statements. Even when he tried to get me to cross the deadline to retrieve that softball, which could have cost me my life were it not for Lieutenant Hart's shout of warning, still, that act and the others provided me with a motive to fight Captain Bedford. Fighting and confrontation and a refusal to shuck and shuffle and accept his behavior passively do not constitute a motive to murder, captain, despite your need to twist it into one."

"But you did hate him…"

"We do not always kill what we hate, captain. Nor do we always hate what we kill."

Townsend did not follow up immediately with another question, and a momentary silence shifted onto the courtroom.

Tommy had just enough time to think that Scott was doing quite well, when a strident voice burst from the crowd at his back, searing across the room.

"Liar! Lying black bastard!" There was an unmistakable southern accent marring each of the words.

"Killer! Goddamn lying murderer!" a second voice shouted out from a different section of the audience.

And then, just as rapidly, a third cry, only this time the words seemed directed at the men who'd first shouted.

"It's the truth!" someone yelled.

"Can't you tell the truth when you hear it?" These words had a Boston flat A tone that Tommy recognized from his days at Harvard.

In a corner of the theater, there was a scuffling sound, and pushing and shoving. As Tommy pivoted, staring back into the mix ofkriegies, he saw a couple of fliers suddenly chest to chest. Within seconds the noise of anger and confrontation erupted in more than one spot in the large room, and jam-packed men started to push and gesture. It seemed almost as if three or four fights were about to break out before Colonel MacNamara started to crash his gavel down furiously, the hammering noise punctuating the cascade of angry voices.

"Damn it! Order!" MacNamara cried out.

"I will clear this court if you cannot maintain discipline!"

The room seemed to glow red for an instant, continuing to throb before settling into an uneasy quiet.

Colonel MacNamara allowed the tense silence to continue, before he threatened the crowd ofkriegies again.

"I recognize that there are differences of opinion, and that feelings are strong," he said flatly.

"But we must remain orderly! A military trial must be a public event, for all to witness! I warn you men, do not make me take steps to control any further outbursts before they should happen!"

Then MacNamara did something that, to Tommy's eyes, seemed unusual. The SAO briefly turned toward Commandant Von Reiter, and said, "This is exactly what I have repeatedly warned you about, Herr Oberst Von Reiter nodded his head in acknowledgment of what MacNamara said. Then the SAO turned back to Walker Townsend, and made a small gesture for the prosecutor to continue.

Something else struck Tommy in that second. Every other time there had been even the slightest disruption in the proceedings, MacNamara had been furiously quick with his gavel. In fact. Tommy thought, the one thing that MacNamara seemed most capable of doing was slamming that gavel onto the table, because he certainly wasn't astute about the law or criminal procedures. This time, however, it almost seemed to Tommy as if the SAO had waited until after the first outburst, and that MacNamara had allowed the tensions to bubble close to the boil-over point, before demanding order. It was, to Tommy's mind, almost as if MacNamara had expected the outburst.

He considered this most curious, but did not have the time to reflect further, as Walker Townsend immediately launched into another question.

"What you want. Lieutenant Scott, is for this tribunal, and for all the men gathered here listening to you, what you want all of us to believe is that on the night of Captain Bedford's death, at some point after you went out to the corridor, and were seen skulking around in the dark, that you returned to your bunk and did not notice that some unknown person had removed your flight jacket and boots from their customary locations, and had stolen this sword you constructed from your kit, taken these items and utilized them in the murder of Captain Bedford and then returned them to your room, and that subsequently you did not observe the blood staining them?

This is what you want us all to believe, is it not, lieutenant?"

Scott paused, then responded firmly.

"Yes. Precisely."

"Lies!" shouted out a voice from the back, ignoring MacNamara's warning.

"Let him talk!" came the almost instant reply.

The SAO reached for the gavel again, but a grudging silence crept back into the courtroom.

"You don't think that's far-fetched, lieutenant?"

"I don't know, captain. I have not now, nor have I ever committed a murder! So I have no experience. You, sir, on the other hand, have prosecuted numerous murder cases. Perhaps you should provide us with the answer. Have none of the cases you've prosecuted ever been unusual? Surprising?

Have events never been mysterious and answers hard to come by? You're far more expert than I, captain, so perhaps you should be answering these questions."

"It's not my job to answer questions here, lieutenant!"

Townsend replied, anger creeping into his own voice for perhaps the first time.

"You're on the witness stand."

"Well, captain," Scott responded coldly, infuriatingly, and Tommy thought, nearly perfectly, "it is my belief that that is what we are put on this earth to do. Answer questions. Every time any one of us stepped up into a plane to go into battle, we were answering a question. Every time we face the real enemies in our lives, whether they are Germans or southern cracker racists, we are answering questions. That's pretty much all that life is, captain. But maybe here, in the bag, stuck behind the wire, you've forgotten all that.

Well, I, for damn certain, haven't!"

Townsend paused again. He shook his head slowly back and forth, and then started to walk back toward the prosecution's table. He was halfway there, when he stopped, and looked up at Scott, as if something had just occurred to him, a question that was more an afterthought.

Tommy instantly recognized this for what it was, which was a trap, but there was nothing he could do. He hoped that Scott would see through the histrionics, as well.

"Ah, lieutenant, just one final inquiry, then, if you don't mind."

Tommy abruptly reached out and pushed one of his law books to the floor, where it fell with a thudding sound that distracted Scott and

Townsend.

"Sorry," Tommy said, reaching down and making as much disturbance collecting the law book as he could possibly manage.

"Didn't mean to interrupt you, captain. Please continue."

Townsend glared, then repeated, "One more question, then…"

Lincoln Scott's eyes caught Tommy's for a split second as he read the warning in Tommy's small accident, then he nodded toward the prosecutor.

"What would that be, captain?"

"Would you be willing to lie to save your own life?"

Tommy pushed back, rising from his seat, but Colonel MacNamara had anticipated the objection, and he waved his hand sharply in front of himself, making a slicing motion to cut Tommy off.

"The defendant shall answer the question," he said swiftly. Tommy grimaced, and felt his insides constrict.

He thought this the worst question, an old-fashioned trick of the prosecutor's trade, one Townsend could never get away with in a real court, but there, inside the shadow trial of Stalag Luft Thirteen, it was allowed in ultimate unfairness.

There was no way to answer the question. Tommy knew. If Scott said yes he made everything else he'd said appear to be a lie. If Scott said no, then every kriegie in the audience, every man who'd felt the cold breath of death on their neck and knew they were wildly lucky to still be alive, would believe that he was lying right then, because it was worth anything to stay alive.

Tommy locked eyes for a moment with Lincoln Scott, and he thought the black flier saw the same danger. It was like passing between the twin terrors of Scylla and Charybdis.

One couldn't extract oneself without suffering a loss.

"I don't know," Scott replied slowly but firmly.

"I do know that I've told the truth here today."

"So you say," Townsend said with a snort and a shake of his head.

"That's right," Scott boomed.

"So I say!"

"Then," Townsend said, trying successfully to infect his words with a deadly combination of frustration and utter disbelief, "I have nothing else at this time for this witness." He resumed his seat.

Colonel MacNamara eyed Tommy.

"Do you wish to redirect, counselor?" he asked.

Tommy thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"No sir."

The SAO glanced down at Lincoln Scott.

"You are dismissed, then, lieutenant."

Scott rose, pivoted, and saluted the tribunal sharply, then, shoulders straight, marched back to his seat.

"Anything else, Mr. Hart?" MacNamara asked.

"The defense rests, colonel," Tommy said loudly.

"All right, then," MacNamara said.

"We will reconvene this afternoon for final arguments from both sides.

Gentlemen, these should be brief and to the point!" He banged his gavel down hard.

"Dismissed!" MacNamara said.

There was a rustling as men started to rise, and in that moment of confusion, a voice rang out: "Let's shoot him now!"

Only to be met by a second voice, equally outraged, crying, "You southern bastards!" Immediately there was a tangle of men, pushing, shoving, their voices all blending together in a cacophony of angers and opinions. Tommy could see kriegies restraining kriegies, and men looking to take a swing at each other. He wasn't sure how the camp divided on the question of Lincoln Scott's guilt or innocence, only that it was filling the men with tension.

MacNamara banged away. In a second, silence slipped over the angry men.

"I said "Dismissed!" MacNamara bellowed.

"And that's what I meant!" He eyed the tangled crowd of kriegies furiously, waiting in the edgy silence in the theater for a moment, then rising, and striding purposefully, he moved from behind the tribunal's table and stepped through the mass of men, eyeing each carefully, in that way he had which made it seem as if he were taking names and putting them to faces. Behind him, there was some grumbling, and a few more sharp words, but these faded as the men slowly began to file out of the courtroom, out into the sunshine of midday.

Alone with his thoughts and troubles. Tommy walked the deadline. He knew he should have been back inside the barracks room, pencil and paper in hand, scribbling down the words he would use that afternoon to try to save Lincoln Scott's life, but the wildly tossing seas within his own heart had driven him out into the liar's sun, and he marched along, his pace dictated by the sums and subtractions he was making within himself. He could feel the warmth on his neck, and knew it to be dishonest, for the weather would change again, and gray rain would overcome the camp soon enough.

The other kriegies out in the assembly yards, or walking the same route as Tommy, gave him a wide berth. No one stopped, not to curse him out or to wish him luck or even to admire the afternoon that surrounded them as tenaciously as did the barbed wire. Tommy walked in solitude.

A man who lives a lie… Tommy considered Scott's words describing

Vincent Bedford. He understood one thing about the murdered man: There had never been a bargain that Trader Vic struck where he did not come out ahead, except for the last, and that was the one that had cost him his life.

High price, Tommy thought with a cynical fervor. If Trader Vic had cheated someone on a deal, would that have been enough reason to kill him? Tommy walked on, asking himself: What did Vic deal in? And then he provided the answer: Vic dealt in food and chocolate and warm clothes, cigarettes and coffee and occasionally in an illegal radio and maybe a camera. What else?

Tommy almost stopped. Trader Vic dealt in information.

Tommy glanced over at the woods. He was passing behind the rear of Hut

105, near the slightly hidden spot that he believed was the actual murder location. Killed and then moved. He measured the distance to the wire from the rear of the hut, then looked farther, into the trees.

For a moment, he reeled under the pressures of the moment.

He thought of Visser and men moving around late at night and men threatening Scott against orders and all the evidence that pointed one way abruptly disappearing, and Phillip Pryce being summarily removed from the scene.

Everything came pouring at him, and he felt as if he were standing up in the face of a strong ocean wind, one that slung froth off the tops of wildly tossing whitecaps, and turned the water to a deep, murky gray color, promising a great storm that was moving steadily on the horizon.

He shook his head, and berated himself: You have spent too much time staring at the currents at your feet, instead of looking to the distance. He believed that this was the sort of observation Phillip Pryce would have made. But again, he felt trapped by all the events.

In his reverie, he heard his name being called, and for a moment, it seemed to him almost as if it were Lydia, calling him from the front yard, urging him to come out from indoors, because there was a scent of Vermont spring in the air, and it would be criminal not to snatch at it. But as he pivoted about, he saw that it was Hugh Renaday calling his name.

Scott stood nearby, and was gesturing toward him. Tommy glanced down at the watch he wore and saw that it was closing on the time for the final arguments to begin.

Even Tommy was forced to concede that Walker Townsend was eloquent and persuasive. He spoke in a low-key, almost hypnotic tone, steady, determined, the slight southern lilt in his voice giving his words an illusory credence. He pointed out that of all the elements of the crime, the only one truly denied by Lincoln Scott was the actual murder. He seemed to take delight in pointing out that the black airman had admitted to virtually everything else that constituted the killing.

As the entire camp, jammed into every inch of space in the theater, listened to Townsend's words, it seemed to Tommy that innocence was slowly, but certainly, being stripped away from Lincoln Scott. In his own quiet yet sturdy manner. Captain Townsend made it clear that there was only one suspect in the case, and only one man to be assigned guilt.

He called Tommy's efforts mere smoke screens, designed to deflect attention from Scott. He argued that the limited forensic capabilities within the camp made it all the more critical that the circumstantial evidence be given even more weight. He had nothing but contempt for Visser's testimony, though he was careful not to examine what the German had said, but instead to emphasize how he'd said it, which, Tommy recognized, was the best way of diminishing it.

And finally, in what Tommy was forced to swallow bitterly when he saw its brilliance. Walker Townsend suggested that he did not truly blame Lincoln Scott for killing Trader Vic.

The captain from Virginia had lifted his own voice, making certain that not only the tribunal but every kriegie craning to hear actually did hear.

"Who among us. Your Honors, would really have behaved differently?

Captain Bedford did much to bring his own death upon himself. He underestimated Lieutenant Scott from the outset," Townsend said, firmly.

"He did this because he was, as we have heard here, a racist. And he thought, in the cowardly way that racists have, that his target would not fight back. Well, sirs, we have all seen, if nothing else, that

Lincoln Scott is a fighter. He has told us himself how the odds did not affect him when he went into battle. And so, he took on Vincent Bedford, just as he took on those FWs arrayed against him. That death ensued is understandable. But, gentlemen, just because we can now understand the causes of his actions, that does not make him less accountable, nor does it make them any less despicable! In a way. Your Honors, this is the simplest of situations: Trader Vic got what he deserved for the way he behaved. And now, we must hold Lieutenant Scott to no less a standard! He found Vincent Bedford guilty and executed him! Now we, as civilized, democratic, and free men, must do the same!"

With a nod to Colonel MacNamara, Walker Townsend sat down.

"Your turn, Mr. Hart" the SAO said.

"Be brief."

Tommy rose.

"I will. Your Honor."

He stepped to the front of the auditorium and raised his voice just loud enough so that everyone could hear.

"There is one thing that we all, every man here in Stalag Luft Thirteen, understands. Your Honors, and that is uncertainty.

It is the most elemental province of war. Nothing truly is certain until it is past, and even then, many times, it remains shrouded by confusion and conflict.

"That is the case with the death of Captain Vincent Bedford.

We know from the only real expert who examined the crime scene-Nazi though he is-that the prosecution's case does not fit the evidence.

And we know that Lieutenant Scott's denial remains un controverted by the prosecution, and unshaken by cross-examination. And so, members of the court, you are being asked to make a decision from which there is no appeal, and which is utterly final in its certainty on the most subjective of details. Details cloaked in doubt. But there is no doubt about a German firing squad. I do not think you can order this without an absolute belief in Lincoln Scott's guilt! You cannot order it because you do not like him, or because he is the wrong color, or because he can quote from the classics and others cannot. You cannot order it, because a death penalty cannot be based on anything except the most clear-cut and uncompromising set of undeniable facts.

The death of Trader Vic doesn't come close to meeting that standard."

Tommy paused, trying hard to think of something else to say, and believing that he had fallen short of Townsend professional eloquence.

And so, he added one last thought:

"We are all prisoners here. Your Honors, and unsure as to whether we will live to see tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. But I would suggest to you that taking Lincoln Scott's life under these circumstances will kill a little bit of each of us, just as surely as a bullet or bomb would."

And with that, he sat down.

Behind him, voices suddenly babbled together, breaking first into murmurs, followed by cries and shouts, reforming as arguments and closing in on fights. Kriegies in pockets throughout the theater pushed and shoved, confronting each other angrily. Tommy's first thought was that it was abundantly clear that the two final statements from Walker Townsend and himself had done nothing to defuse the tension among the men, and, probably, had done more to cement already held beliefs.

Again the gavel pounded from the front of the theater.

"I will not have a riot!" Colonel MacNamara was shouting.

"And we will not have a lynching!"

"Hope not," Scott whispered under his breath. He wore a wry smile.

"You will come to order!" MacNamara cried out. But it took the kriegies almost a minute to settle down and regain some composure.

"All right," MacNamara said, when silence finally gripped the room again.

"That's better." He cleared his throat with a long, protracted cough.

"The obvious tension and conflict of opinions surrounding this case has created special circumstances," MacNamara blared out, as if he were on the parade ground.

"Consequently, in consultation with the Luftwaffe authorities"

MacNamara nodded toward Commandant Von Reiter, who touched the shiny black patent leather brim of his cap in a salute of acknowledgment "we have decided upon the following. Please understand. These are direct orders from your commanding officer, and they will be obeyed!

Anyone not following orders precisely will find themselves in the cooler for the next month!"

Again, MacNamara paused, letting the threat sink in.

"We will reconvene here at exactly zero eight hundred tomorrow morning!

The tribunal will render the verdict at that point! That will give us the remainder of this night to deliberate.

Following that verdict, the entire contingent of prisoners will proceed directly to the assembly ground for the morning Appell! Directly! There will be no exceptions to this! The Germans have graciously agreed to delay the morning count to accommodate the conclusion of this case!

There will be no uproar, no fights, no discussion whatsoever about the verdict, until after the count is completed. You will remain in formation until dismissal! The Germans will provide added security to prevent the outbreak of any unauthorized action! You men are warned.

You will behave as officers and gentlemen, regardless of what our verdict is! Am I completely clear about this?"

This was a question that didn't need answering.

"Zero eight hundred. Right here. Everyone. That's an order. Now you are dismissed."

The three members of the tribunal rose, as did the German officers. The kriegies struggled up as well, and began to file out.

Walker Townsend bent down toward Tommy, offering his hand.

"You did a fine job, lieutenant," he said.

"Far better than anyone had the right to expect from a fella standing up for the first time in a capital case. They must have taught you well at Harvard."

Silently, Tommy shook the prosecutor's hand. Townsend didn't even acknowledge Scott, turning instead to catch up with Major Clark.

"He's right. Tommy," Scott said.

"And I appreciate it, no matter what they decide " But Tommy did not reply to him, either.

Instead, he felt an utter coldness inside, for finally, in those last few seconds, he believed he'd seen a glimpse of the real reason Trader Vic had been killed. It was almost as if the truth were floating just in front of him, vaporous, elusive as always, almost invisible and ever slippery. Tommy reached out inadvertently, grasping at the air in front of him, hoping that what he'd finally seen was, if not the complete answer, at least the greatest part of it.