Scott was the first to speak when they finally arrived back at their barracks room inside Hut 101. The black flier seemed alternately both depressed and excited, reflective yet energized, as if filled with conflict and compromise and unsure exactly how to react to the long night that stretched in front of them. He paced fast across the room, pounding his fists against imaginary opponents dancing in the emptiness before him, then he turned, and slumped against the wall, like a man in the tenth round finding the ropes and hoping for a second or two's respite from the onslaught. He looked at Hugh, reclining on his bunk like a workingman fatigued from a long hard day's labor, then over to Tommy, who of the three of them seemed the most impassive and yet, oddly, the most volatile.
"I suppose," Scott said almost wistfully, "that we should celebrate because this is my last night of…"
He hesitated, smiled a little sadly, then finished his sentence: "… my last night of something. Innocence? Freedom? Being accused? No, that is unlikely. And I suppose it's not exactly right to say freedom, because we're all stuck here and none of us are free. But it's the last night of something, and I guess that's notable enough. So, what do you think? Break out the champagne or the hundred-year-old Napoleon brandy? Grill up some sirloin steaks? Bake a chocolate cake and decorate it with candles? Whatever will get us through the night."
Scott pushed off the wall and walked over to Tommy Hart.
He touched him on the shoulder in what, had Tommy been paying close attention, he would have recognized was perhaps the first spontaneous display of some sort of affection that the black airman had managed since his arrival at Stalag Luft Thirteen.
"Come on. Tommy," he said softly, "the case is over. You did what you were supposed to do. In any civilized world, you would have succeeded in creating a reasonable doubt, which is all that the law is supposed to require. The trouble is, we just don't currently live in a civilized world."
Scott paused, breathing in deeply, before continuing.
"I guess now all we have to do is wait for the verdict that we've known was coming straight at me since the morning Vic's body was found."
This statement finally shook Tommy loose from the near-trance he'd been in, since the end of the court session that day.
He looked over at Lincoln Scott and slowly shook his head.
Over? "Tommy said.
"Lincoln, the case has just begun."
Scott looked at him quizzically.
From the bunk, Hugh said, almost exhausted, "Now, Tommy, you've managed to lose me on that one. Begun? How?"
Tommy abruptly pounded one fist into an open palm, and then, just like
Scott, he suddenly punched out at the emptiness in the room, whirling about, snapping off a couple of jabs, then throwing a wild left hook at the air in front of them.
The single harsh overhead bulb burning above him threw exaggerated streaks of light across his face.
"What am I doing?" he demanded suddenly, stopping in his tracks in the center of the room, grinning maniacally at the other two men.
"Acting like a crazy fool," Hugh said, managing a smile.
"Shadow-boxing," Scott replied.
"That's right. Exactly right! And that's what's been going on over the past few days." Tommy put a hand to his head, pushed his shock of hair away from his eyes, then lowered his index finger to his lips. He tiptoed over to the door, opened it gingerly, and looked out into the corridor, checking to see if anyone was watching them or listening in.
But the corridor was empty. He closed the door and turned back to the two other men, an exaggerated look of excitement on his face.
"I have been a fool not to have seen it earlier," he said quietly, though each word seemed to glow incandescently.
"See what?" Scott asked. Hugh nodded in agreement.
Tommy stepped toward the two others, and began to whisper.
"What do we know Trader Vic traded for, right before his death?"
"The knife that killed him."
"Right. Right. The knife. The knife we needed. The knife we had, then gave up, and which Visser seems so intent on finding. The damn knife. The all-important damn knife.
Okay. But what else?"
The other two looked at each other.
"What do you mean," Scott started.
"It was the knife that was critical…"
"No." Tommy shook his head.
"The knife had everybody's attention, right. It killed Vic. No doubt.
But what Bedford also managed to acquire for some unknown men in this camp was just as important. That fighter pilot, the guy from New York, he told us he saw Vic with some German currency and official papers and also with a train schedule…"
"Yes, but…"
"A schedule." Lincoln and Hugh remained silent.
"I just didn't think about it, because I was, like everybody else, thinking about the goddamn knife! Now, why would any kriegie need a schedule, unless someone thought he could catch a train? But that's impossible, right? No one has ever escaped from this camp! Because even if you could somehow get past the wire and then through the woods into town without being spotted, and managed to get to the station platform, why, by the time the seven-fifteen or whatever train that's heading to Switzerland and safety came chugging in, the place would be crawling with Krauts and Gestapo goons looking for your sorry butt, because the alarm would already have sounded right here at dear old Stalag Luft Thirteen!
Right. We all know that! And we all know that the fact that no one has ever gotten out of here has been eating away at Colonel MacNamara and his slimy little sidekick Clark for months." Then Tommy lowered his voice yet another octave, so that his words were spoken in little more than a whisper.
"But what is different about tomorrow that has never once been different?"
Again the others simply stared at him.
"Tomorrow is different because of one thing, and it's the one thing that this trial has required the Germans to do. Different from any other day that we've been here. Think about it! What never changes?
Not on Christmas or New Year's. Not on the nicest day of summer. Not on goddamn Adolf Hitler's official birthday! What is the one thing that never changes?
The morning count! Same time. Same place. Same thing every day! Day in. Day out. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year and leap year, too. Like clockwork, the sun comes up and then the damn Krauts count us every morning. Except for tomorrow. Because the Germans have graciously agreed to postpone the Appell because everyone is concerned that the rendering of the verdict in this case will cause a riot!
The Krauts, who never, ever change their damn routines, are changing theirs tomorrow! So, tomorrow, and tomorrow only, the count will be delayed. What? An hour? Two hours?
All those damn nice convenient formations five-deep to make it easier for the Krauts to count us! Well, tomorrow the formations won't happen until far past their usual time."
Scott and Hugh looked at each other. There was a wildness in Tommy's eyes that seemed infectious, and passed quickly to the others.
"You're saying…" Scott started.
But Tommy finished for him.
"Tomorrow those formations will be short some men."
Scott said, "Keep going. Tommy," as he listened.
"You see, if only one man, or two, maybe as many as three or four were blitzing out, well, you could probably cover up for them when the ferrets make their way up and down the rows although that's never happened. I suppose it's conceivable that you could find a way to give them the couple of hours' head start they would need. But more? How about twenty men? Thirty? Fifty? That number missing would be obvious from the first minute at Appell, and the alarm would sound. So, how do you give them enough time, especially when you can't have all fifty jump on the first train that comes rolling into the station? When you need to spread out the numbers and catch trains over the course of the entire morning?"
Hugh pointed a finger at Tommy, as he nodded his head.
"Makes bloody sense," he said.
"Makes absolutely bloody sense. You've got to delay that morning count! Except I still don't see what Vic's death has to do with an escape."
"I don't know, either," Tommy said.
"Not quite yet. But I'm damn certain it has something to do with it, and I'm going to find out what tonight!"
"Okay, I'll go along with that. But how does Scott facing a firing squad fit into this?" Hugh asked.
Tommy shook his head.
"Another good question," he said.
"And another answer I'm going to get tonight. But I'd be willing to wager my last pack of smokes that someone ready and willing to kill Trader Vic in order to get out of this damn place sure as hell wouldn't think twice about leaving Lincoln behind to face a German firing squad, either. A very angry German firing squad."
This statement drew no response from the others because its truth was so glaringly obvious.
It was a few minutes before one a.m. on the luminescent dial of the watch that Lydia had given him when Tommy Hart heard the first faint sounds of movement in the corridor outside their barracks room. Since the moment the Germans had extinguished the electricity throughout the camp, the three men had taken turns perched beside the door, craning to pick up the telltale noises of men moving as silently as possible toward the exit. Waiting had been a gamble. More than once Tommy had to overcome the urge to simply gather the others and head out into the night. But he had remembered that on another night he'd awakened to hear men heading out, and he guessed that the same trio as before were on the list of men taking their chance for freedom that morning.
Following was a better idea than simply launching himself and the others out into all the dangers of the searchlights and trigger-quick goons, not really knowing where they were heading. Tommy had a good idea that he knew which of the huts were strong possibilities as the gathering place for the escapees: either 105, where the murder had taken place, or 107, the next hut over, and although not the closest to the wire and the forest beyond, not the farthest, either.
His companions sat behind him, waiting on the edge of a bunk, wordlessly. Tommy could see their faces in the glow of Hugh's cigarette.
"There!" Tommy whispered. He held a hand up in the air and bent even closer to the thick wooden door. He could hear the slightest vibration of footsteps padding against the floor planks. He envisioned what was taking place in the corridor a few feet away. The kriegies would have been briefed, and they would have already prepared their escape kits.
They would be wearing clothes tailored to make them appear to be civilians.
They might carry a suitcase or a valise. They would have collected some extra rations. Their forged identity papers, work and travel permits, maybe even tickets for the train, would be sewn inside their jacket pockets. There would be no need for words, but each man, inwardly, silently, would be practicing the few phrases of memorized German that they hoped would be enough to carry them to the Swiss border. Following a precise order, they would stop at the door, wait for the lights to swing past, then exit rapidly. They wouldn't chance even a candle on this night. Tommy thought. Instead, each man would have counted the number of paces from his bunk to the door.
Tommy wheeled toward the others.
"Not a sound," he said.
"Not one sound. Get ready…"
But Scott, curiously, put his hand out, grasping the other two men on their shoulders and pulling them close, so that their faces were only inches apart, and so that he could whisper with a sudden, almost fierce intensity.
"I've been thinking, Tommy, Hugh…" he started slowly, making sure his soft words were crisp and clear, "there's something we need to keep in mind about tonight."
His words made Tommy pause, almost chilling him.
"What?" Hugh asked.
Tommy could hear Scott inhale deeply, as if the weight of what he was about to say bore down on him, creating a burden none of them had foreseen.
"Men have died to bring about tonight," he whispered.
"Men have worked hard and then died hard to give others a chance at freedom. There were two men trapped, digging in a collapsed tunnel, right before I arrived here…"
"That's right," Hugh chimed in quietly.
"We even heard about it over in the other camp."
Scott hesitated, catching more wind before he said as softly yet forcefully as he could: "We have to remember those men! We cannot screw this up for everyone heading out tonight! We have to be careful… Very careful!"
"We have to find the truth," Tommy bluntly replied.
He could just see Scott's head nodding in agreement.
"That's right," he said.
"We have to find the truth. But we have to remember the cost. Others have died. There are some debts being paid tonight, and we have to keep that in mind. Tommy.
Remember, when all is said and done, we are still officers in the air corps. We took oaths to defend our country. Not to defend me. That's all I'm saying."
Tommy swallowed hard.
"I'll remember," he said. He felt as if everything he had to do that night had just been made far more difficult. The stakes are high, he told himself.
Hugh was silent for a second, before he whispered, "You know, Scott, you're a bloody good soldier and a patriot, and you're absolutely right, and all these bastards who've been lying and cheating probably don't deserve what you're saying even though you're right. Now Tommy, you're the navigator…"
Tommy could see Scott's abrupt wide grin.
"That's right. Tommy. You chart the course. We'll follow."
There was nothing he could say. Unsure about anything except that all the answers lay somewhere in the darkness ahead of him. Tommy gently slid the bunk room door open, and stealthily began to move down the corridor, aware that his two companions were trailing a few steps behind. There was nothing in the air around them except black night and the crippling harsh fear of uncertainty.
They had maneuvered halfway down the barracks when a small shaft of light filtered through the cracks in the front door as the searchlight swept past, and for the smallest of seconds, Tommy caught sight of three figures huddled together.
Then, just as quickly as the light was there, it exited, plunging the barracks into darkness again. But Tommy saw through the blackness what he expected; three men silently diving out into the ocean of night. He could not tell who they were, nor could he see how they were dressed, or what they carried. All he saw was the shape of movement, and he pushed ahead rapidly.
There was no need to say anything when they reached the end of the corridor and hunched down, waiting for the same moment when the light would slide past. Save for the sharpened breaths from the two men beside him. Tommy could hear nothing.
They did not have to wait long. The searchlight glow smacked the door, seemed to hesitate, then pushed on, carving away slices of darkness from the other huts. In that moment, Tommy reached up, grabbed the door handle, and pushed it open, diving out into the night as he had before, making fast for the lee of the hut and the shadows that lurked there. The two others were directly behind him, and when they all thrust themselves up against the wall of Hut 103, they were breathing much harder than they would have expected, given the modest distance they'd covered.
Tommy peered around, trying to find the three men who had exited before them, but he could not pick them out of the night.
"Damn," he whispered.
Hugh wiped his forehead.
"I'm not sure I like being ass-end Charlie here tonight," he spat, but his words were punctuated by a smile.
Tommy nodded, feeling a little lighter at hearing the Canadian's brusque voice.
"Ass-end Charlie" was the British fighter pilots' inelegant description for the last man in a six-plane wing attack formation-the most dangerous and deadly position. The war had been almost a year old before fighter command ordered an alteration in the basic flying formation, switching to a V similar to the way the Germans flew into combat, instead of the elongated wing, which left the last man uncovered. No one ever watched the tail of ass-end Charlie, and dozens of Spitfire pilots had died in 1939, because the Germans flying Messerschmidts would simply sidle up behind, unseen, fire a burst, and then flee, before the wing could get turned to meet the threat.
"Ah, never mind," Hugh added.
"Where to now?"
Tommy strained his eyes to penetrate the night. It was clear, cold.
The sky was lit with stars and a partial moon glowed above the distant line of trees, outlining the forms of the goons manning the machine-gun towers. The three men traveling ahead of them had disappeared.
"Maybe under the hut, like before. Tommy?" Scott whispered.
"Maybe they went that way."
Tommy shook his head and shivered at the thought.
"No," he said, welcoming the pitch black around them.
"Around the front, then over to the side of 105. Follow me."
Without waiting for a response, the three men bent over and raced forward, dodging the stairs into 103, passing along the edge of the open space and danger, then letting the narrow alley between the huts close in on them.
Just as they passed from the danger of the exposed front into the safety of the alley. Tommy heard a small thudding sound, followed by a whispered, but frantic curse. Without breaking his stride, as he dodged into the darkness, he saw the shape of a man a few dozen yards away, directly in front of Hut 105.
The man was scrambling, picking up a valise dropped in the dirt. He was bent over, moving frantically, grabbing at the small suitcase and a few indistinct items that had fallen out, then immediately sprinting ahead, disappearing from Tommy's sight. Tommy realized instantly that this was the third man in the trio moving ahead of them. The third man, who faced most of the danger.
As if to punctuate this threat, a searchlight swung over the spot where the man had dropped his suitcase only seconds before. The light seemed to dance about, swaying back and forth, almost as if it were only mildly curious. Then, after a few seconds, it shrugged and skipped on, moving ahead.
"You see that?" Lincoln Scott hissed.
Tommy nodded.
"You got an idea where they're going?" Renaday asked.
"My guess is Hut 10?" Tommy said.
"But we won't know for sure until we get there."
Dodging across the alley, covered by the blackness, the three men maneuvered to the front of the next hut. The air was still, soundless.
It was so quiet that Tommy thought that every infinitesimal noise they made was magnified, trumpetlike, a klaxon noise of alarm. To move silently in a world absent all external noises is very difficult. There were no nearby city sounds of cars and buses or even the deep whomp-whomp-whomp of a distant bombing raid. Not even the joking voices of the goons in the towers or a bark from a Hundfuhrer's dog creased the night to distract or help conceal every footstep they made. For a moment, he wished the British would break into some rowdy song over in the northern compound. Anything to cover over the top of the modest noises they made.
"Okay," Tommy whispered, "same drill as before, except this time, we're going one at a time. Around the front and then into the shadow on the far side. I'm first, then Lincoln, and then you, Hugh. Nobody rush anything. Be careful. We're a lot closer to the tower across the yard. It was their light that almost caught the other guy. They might have heard something and they may be looking this way. And there's usually one of those damn dogs over by the front gate. Take your time and wait until you're sure it's safe."
"Right," Scott said.
"Those damn dogs" Hugh muttered.
"You think he can smell how scared I am?" The Canadian cracked a small, joyless laugh.
"Shouldn't be too bloody hard to pick up my scent right about now. And if those damnable lights come any closer, you'll be able to smell my drawers from a mile away" This made both Tommy and Lincoln smile, despite themselves.
The Canadian grasped Tommy on the forearm.
"You lead on. Tommy," he said.
"Scott'll be right behind you, and I'll be along in a minute or two."
"Wait until you're sure," Tommy repeated. Then, hunched over, he crab-walked up to the front of the hut, right to the last shadow on the lip of the exposed area. He paused there, reaching down and double-checking his shoes to make sure they were fastened tightly and that his jacket was zipped tight, and pulling his cap down hard on his head. He wore nothing that would jangle, nothing that might catch on the steps as he slipped past. He performed a small inventory of his person, checking for anything that might betray him, and could find nothing. He thought, in that second of hesitation, that he had traveled far without reaching his destination, but that some things that had been hidden from him were much closer to coming into focus.
Every rational bone in his body argued against exposing himself to the chances of the searchlight, the dogs, and the goons, but Tommy knew these voices of caution were cowards, and realized, too, that there was the chance that dodging the Germans right at that moment might be the least dangerous thing he had to do that night.
Tommy took a deep breath, and balanced forward on the balls of his feet. He looked up, gritted his teeth, and then, without any warning to the others, launched himself around the front of Hut 105.
His feet kicked up small puffs of slippery dust, and he almost stumbled when his boot caught the lip of a small ridge in the dirt. He had the momentary realization that it must have been that same lip that tripped the man before him, but like a skater momentarily thrown off stride, he regained his balance and sprang forward.
Breathing hard, he ducked around the corner, tossing himself against the wall and the welcome darkness. It took him a second or two to calm himself. The beating in his ears was drum like perhaps even like the sound of an airplane's engine, and it faded slowly.
Tommy waited for Scott to traverse the same distance, letting the silence flow around him. He sharpened his eyes and ears, and then turned his eyes to the front door of Hut 107. As he watched and listened, he heard the unmistakable sound of an American voice. He bent toward the sound and what he heard didn't surprise him.
Penetrating the darkness, even though it was whispered, a man said,
"Number thirty-eight…" And then there was a small, distant noise as someone rapped twice on the wooden barracks door. Tommy strained to see through the night, and caught a glimpse of the door swinging open, and a bent-over form taking the front steps two at a time and leaping inside.
He immediately could see why Hut 107 was selected. The front door was in a lee, seemingly shielded from the direct glare of the searchlights, almost a blind spot, because of the odd angles of the assembly yard and the way the other huts were placed. It was not as close to the back wire as Hut 109, but the additional distance was surmountable. Escape planners never chose the huts closest to freedom, anyway, because they were the barracks most frequently searched by the ferrets.
Tommy could see that the forest was a mere seventy-five yards on the far side of the wire. Other tunnels had almost made it that distance, he knew. And, Tommy realized. Hut 107 had the further advantage of being on the town side of the camp. If an escaping kriegie actually made it into the trees, he could keep going straight, instead of trying to navigate with a homemade compass in the deep black of the Bavarian forest.
Tommy pressed himself against the wall, waiting for Scott.
He could tell what the delay was: a searchlight was probing the area they had just traveled, moving behind them, trying to scour the alleyways between the huts.
As Tommy waited, he heard another whisper and double-knock. The door to 107 briefly swung open again. He guessed two men, arriving from the other side of the compound.
The searchlight swept back, toward Hut 101, and Tommy heard the heavy tread of Scott's boots, swinging around the front of the building, as he seized the opportunity. The black flier nearly stumbled as well, and when he threw himself next to Tommy, he was muttering, "Jesus Christ!"
"You okay?"
Scott breathed in deeply.
"Still alive and kicking," he said.
"But that's too damn close. The searchlight is all over the front of 101 and 103. Bastards. I don't think they saw anything, though. Just typical Kraut behavior. Hugh will be along in a minute, or whenever those goons with that light swing it around somewhere else. You see anything?"
"Yes," Tommy said quietly.
"Men going into 107. Whisper a number and knock twice and the door opens."
"A number?"
"Yeah. You be forty-two. I'm forty-one. A little lie, but it'll get us through the door. And Hugh, if he ever manages to get here, he can be forty-three."
"May take him a minute. The lights were close. And there's something in the way… " "I almost tripped, too."
"Hope he saw that."
The two men waited. They could just make out the shaft of light moving relentlessly over the territory they'd passed through, hunting the darkness. They knew that Hugh was hunched over, hugging the wall, waiting for his chance. It seemed far longer than it probably was, but finally the light snapped off.
"Now, Hugh!" Tommy whispered.
He could hear the pounding of Hugh's boots, as the hulking Canadian leapt forward into the darkness. And then, almost instantly, a deep thud, a muffled curse, and silence, as the same indentation that had tripped each of them did the same to Renaday.
But the Canadian did not immediately leap up.
Instead, Tommy heard a low, harsh moan.
"Hugh?" he whispered as sharply as possible.
There was a moment of quiet, and then both men heard the Canadian's distinctive accent.
"It's my bleeding knee," he groaned.
Tommy crept to the edge of the hut. He could see Hugh still sprawled in the dirt perhaps fifteen feet away, clutching his left knee in agony.
"Wait there," Tommy hissed.
"We'll come get you!"
Scott was at Tommy's side, ready to leap into the darkness, when a sudden shaft of light smashed the air above their heads, forcing them to throw themselves down to the ground.
The searchlight slammed into the roof of Hut 105, and then crawled lizardlike down the wall toward them.
"Don't move," Hugh whispered.
The light seemed to step away from Tommy and Scott and then hover just beyond where Hugh lay, still grabbing his knee, but motionless, his face buried down in the cold dirt. It seemed as if the edge of the light were only inches away from his boot and discovery. The Canadian seemed to reach out for the darkness, as if it were some sort of protective blanket he could pull over him.
For an instant, the light poised, blurrily licking at the prone form of Tommy's friend. Then, languidly, almost as if it were teasing them, it swung a few feet away, back toward Hut 103.
Hugh remained frozen. Slowly, he twisted his face out of the dirt and toward the darkness a few feet away, where Tommy and Lincoln Scott remained frozen in position.
"Leave me!" he said quietly, firmly.
"I can't bloody well move anyway. You go on!"
"No," Tommy replied, keeping his voice as soft as possible, but stricken with urgency.
"We'll get you when the light goes off."
The searchlight stopped again, illuminating the ground perhaps twenty feet away from Hugh.
"Leave me, goddamn it. Tommy! I'm finished for tonight!
Kaput!" Scott reached out and touched Tommy on the arm.
"He's right," Scott said.
"We've got to go on."
Tommy spun toward the black flier.
"If that light catches him they'll shoot him! I'm not leaving him out there!"
"If that light catches him, this place'll be crawling with Krauts in thirty seconds! And all hell will break loose."
"I won't leave him! I left someone behind once before, and I won't do it again!"
"You go out there," Scott hissed, "and you'll end up killing him and yourself and God knows who else tonight."
Tommy turned, in agony, toward Hugh.
"He's my friend!"
Tommy whispered painfully.
"Then act like one!" Scott replied.
"Do what he says!"
Tommy turned, searching the shadows for Hugh. The searchlight continued to bounce around, firing light a few feet away from the Canadian. But what Tommy saw astonished him, and must have done the same for Scott, because Tommy could feel the black flier's grip tighten on his arm.
Hugh had rolled over onto his stomach, and moving with a deliberate and utterly agonizing slowness, was crawling forward, away from the front of the hut, heading steadily, painstakingly, and inexorably toward the assembly yard, pointing himself away from his friends who might have tried to help him, and directly away from the men making their way to Hut 107. He was moving away, as well, from the searchlight's beam, which was only a momentary relief because he was steadily proceeding into the vast central open area of Stalag Luft Thirteen. It was the neutral area, a black expanse without any place to conceal himself, but Tommy knew that Hugh had realized that if he were spotted there, it would not immediately alert the Germans to anything happening in the darkened row of huts. The problem was, there was no way to immediately return to safety from the center of the exercise area. Over the course of the night's remaining hours, he might be able to loop around, crawling all the way, back to Hut 101. But far more likely Hugh would have to wait out in the yard until morning or discovery, and either one might mean his death.
Tommy could just make out the Canadian's faint shape working against the cold earth, as Hugh snaked his way into the yard. Then Tommy turned to Scott and pointed to the entrance to Hut 107. "All right," he said.
"Now it's just us."
"Yeah," Scott replied.
"Us and whoever's inside waiting."
Silently, the two men made their way over to the deep shadow at the side of the stairs leading into Hut 107. They paused there for just an instant, both Tommy Hart and Lincoln Scott filled with renegade thoughts. Tommy tossed one glance back in the direction where Hugh had crawled off, but he could no longer make out the shape of his friend, who'd been, for better or worse, swallowed up by the darkness.
Tommy reached up, knocked twice, and whispered: "Forty-one and forty-two…"
There was a momentary hesitation, then the door creaked slightly as someone inside the hut cracked it open.
They jumped forward, grabbing at the opening, and pushing into the hut.
Tommy heard a voice, alarmed, but still whispering, say, "Hey! You're not…" and then fade away. He and Lincoln Scott stood, inside the door, staring down the corridor.
There was an overwhelming eeriness to the scene that greeted them. A half-dozen candles nickered weakly, spaced out perhaps every ten feet or so. Kriegies lined the corridor, all seated on the floor, their legs pulled up beneath them so as to use less space. Perhaps two dozen of the men were dressed in what they hoped would pass for civilian clothing, their uniforms retailored by the camp's sewing services, dyed by ingenious combinations of ink and paints, so that they no longer were colored in the familiar khaki and olive drab of the U.S.
Army. Many men, like the man Tommy had spotted leaving Hut 101, carried makeshift suitcases or portfolios. Some wore workmen's hats and carried mock toolboxes. Anything extra that might make them appear to be other than what they truly were.
The man who'd opened the door was still in uniform. Not heading out that night, Tommy realized. He could see, as well, that every few feet there were support staff, still in their uniforms. In all, there had to be close to sixty men silently stretched down the length of the hut's center corridor. Of these, probably only two dozen were on the escape plan and patiently waiting their turn.
"Goddamn it. Hart!" the man at the door hissed.
"You're not on the list! What are you doing here?"
"You could call this a truth-seeking mission," Tommy replied briskly.
He said no more, but stepped over the feet of the last man waiting, and started down the corridor. Lincoln Scott picked his own way, directly behind Tommy. The weak candlelight threw odd, elongated shadows against the walls. As they passed, the kriegies remained silent, saying nothing, but watching the two men as they stepped forward. It was as if Tommy and Lincoln were penetrating the secret midnight ritual of some unusual order of monks.
Ahead of them they could see a small cone of light coming from the single-toilet privy at the far end of the hut. A kriegie emerged, holding a makeshift bucket filled with dirt, which he passed to one of the uniformed men standing nearby. The bucket was handed on, and finally disappeared into one of the bunk rooms, like an old-fashioned fire brigade passing water to the base of some flames. Tommy peered into the room as he stepped past, and saw that the bucket was being lifted up into a hole in the ceiling, where another pair of hands grabbed for it. He knew that above, in the crawl space below the ceiling, the dirt was spread about, and then the empty bucket passed down, making its way through pairs of eager hands, back toward the privy.
Tommy stepped up to the door. The men's faces seemed streaked with anxiety, marked by the tension of the night and the flickering light from the candles, as another bucket filled with dirt was lifted from a hole in the floor of the hut's sole bathroom.
The tunnel went down beneath the toilet. Kriegie engineers had managed to lift the entire commode and move it several feet to the side, making an opening perhaps four feet square.
The waste pipe descended in the midst of the opening, but had been blocked off at the top. The men in Hut 107 had clearly disabled the toilet in order to dig the tunnel. Tommy was struck with a momentary admiration for the scheme.
Then he heard a sharp, angry voice coming from his side.
"Hart! You son of a bitch! What the hell are you doing here?"
Tommy turned and faced Major Clark.
"Well, major," he replied coldly, "I'm looking for some explanations."
"I'm going to see you brought up on charges, lieutenant!"
Clark blustered, still keeping his voice low, but unable to conceal his anger.
"Now, get the hell back into that corridor and wait there until we're finished here! That's an order!"
Tommy shook his head.
"Not tonight it isn't, major. Not yet."
Clark stepped across the small space, thrusting his face into Tommy's.
"I'll have you…" he started, only to be interrupted by Lincoln
Scott, who pushed his broad shoulders forward, and jabbed a finger in the diminutive major's chest, stopping him in his tracks.
"You'll have us what, major? Shot?"
"Yes! You're interfering with a military operation! Disobeying an order in combat! That's a capital offense."
"Well," Scott said, with an angry smile on his lips, "I seem to be accumulating those sorts of charges with some frequency."
To the side, they heard a muffled laugh from several of the other men, a burst probably caused as much by the tension of the night as by what
Scott had said.
"We're not going anywhere until we have the truth!"
Tommy said, pushing his own face down at the major's.
Clark's face twisted, contorted with rage. He turned to several kriegies standing nearby, just beyond the tunnel entrance.
"Seize these men!" Clark hissed.
The kriegies seemed to hesitate, and in that taut second, a different voice rose, filled with a surprising humor, and accompanied by a truculent laugh.
"Hell, major, you can't do that! And we all know it. Because those two guys are just as important as anyone else here tonight. Only difference is, they didn't know it. So I guess they ain't as stupid as you thought, huh, major?"
Tommy looked down and saw that the man who had spoken was hunched over by the side of the tunnel. He was wearing a dark blue suit, and looking like a somewhat bedraggled businessman. But his grin was unmistakable Cleveland.
"Hey, Hart," Lieutenant Nicholas Fenelli said lightly.
"I really didn't think I'd see you again until we made it home to the
States. So, what do you think of the new threads? Pretty sharp, huh?
Think the girls back home will be lining up for me?"
Fenelli, still smiling, gestured to his suit jacket.
Major Clark turned angrily to the camp medic.
"Lieutenant Fenelli, you're not a part of this!"
Fenelli shook his head.
"That's where you're wrong, major. And every flier here knows it.
We're all a part of the same thing."
Just then another bucket of dirt rose from the tunnel entrance, seemingly pinning Major Clark between the need to distribute the dirt and to deal with Tommy Hart and Lincoln Scott, Clark glared at the two lieutenants, and down at Fenelli, who just grinned insouciantly back at him. He pointed at the bucket brigade to move the dirt along, which it did, swinging past Tommy and Lincoln. Then Clark bent down and whispered to the men in the tunnel: "How much farther?"
It took almost a minute of silence for the question to be relayed up the tunnel and another minute for the answer to come boomeranging back.
"Six feet," a disembodied voice said, rising from the hole in the floor.
"Just like digging a grave."
"Keep at it," the major said, frowning.
"Stick to the schedule!
"Then he turned back to Tommy and Lincoln.
"You two are not welcome here," he said coldly and calmly, apparently having regained his composure in the time it took for the message to be sent up the tunnel and returned.
"Where's Colonel MacNamara?" Tommy asked.
"Where do you think?" Clark asked. Then he answered his own question sourly.
"In his bunk room, deliberating with the other two members of the tribunal."
Tommy paused, then asked, "And he's writing a speech, too, isn't he?
Something that will keep that morning Appell delayed even further, right?"
Clark grimaced and didn't reply. But Fenelli did.
"I knew you were smart enough to figure that out, Hart," he said with his small laugh.
"I told the major that, when he first approached me about making some small alterations in my testimony. But he didn't think you could."
"Shut up, Fenelli," Clark said.
"Alterations?
"Tommy demanded.
Clark did not reply to this. He turned to Hart, his face set, illuminated by candles that exaggerated the red rage coloring on his cheeks.
"You are correct that the ending of the trial provided us with a crucial opportunity that we elected to seize. Take advantage of. But that's all it provided. An opportunity.
There. Now you've had your damn question answered. Get out of the way. We don't have any time to waste, especially on you. Hart, and you, too, Scott."
"I don't believe you," Tommy said.
"Who killed Trader Vic?" he asked insistently.
Major Clark pointed a finger directly at Lincoln Scott.
"He did," he replied harshly.
"All the evidence points to him. It has from the start. And that's what the tribunal will conclude tomorrow morning. You can take that to the bank, lieutenant.
Now get the hell out of the way."
Another bucket rose from the hole in the floor and was seized by a kriegie, who silently moved it into the corridor.
Tommy was only peripherally aware that many of the men behind him had pushed forward, trying to hear the words being spoken above the tunnel entrance.
"Why was Vic killed?" Tommy asked.
"I want the damn answers, major!"
For a moment, the entire corridor jammed with men, and the men working in the tunnel entrance all seemed to hesitate, letting this question echo about the tiny space, painting each kriegie with the same doubt.
Clark folded his arms in front of his chest.
"You won't be getting any more answers from me, lieutenant," he said.
"All the answers you need have already come out at trial. Everyone here knows that. Now stand aside and let us get finished!"
The major seemed rocklike. Uncompromising. Tommy was suddenly at a loss as to what to do. It seemed to him that somewhere close by everything that had happened in the camp over the past weeks could be explained, but he had no idea where to turn. The major was turning obstinacy into a rock-solid lie, and Tommy did not know how to break that barrier. He could sense Lincoln Scott wavering at his side, almost defeated by this final obstacle before them. Tommy searched about, trying to find his next step, next maneuver, but was greeted with a confused emptiness within himself.
He knew he couldn't compromise the escape effort. He did not know what threat he could make, what lever he could pull, what invention he could come up with that would break the sudden stalemate in the privy. He thought right at that second that on the other end of the tunnel men were going to break free, and the truth was going to leave with them.
And just as this thought crept into his heart, Nicholas Fenelli abruptly piped up again.
"You know. Hart, the major isn't going to help you. He hates
Lieutenant Scott as much as Trader Vic did, and probably for the same damn reasons. He probably wants to be there to see that Kraut firing squad take aim. Hell, sounds to me like he'd be willing to give the damn order to fire…"
"Shut up, Fenelli!" Clark said.
"That's a direct order!"
Tommy looked down at the man who wanted to be a doctor, who shrugged, again ignoring the major.
"You want some answers. Tommy? Well, it seems to me you're going to have to dig hard for them tonight."
Tommy felt a sudden chill in the room, as if he'd stepped into a pocket of cold air.
"I don't follow," he said, hesitating.
"Sure you do," Fenelli answered, with another small, braying laugh, and a mocking sneer directed toward Major Clark.
"Let me put it to you this way. Tommy…"
The medic held out a small piece of white paper. Tommy saw the number twenty-eight written in black pencil in the middle of the sheet. He looked at Fenelli.
"I'm twenty-eight," Fenelli said slowly.
"In order to get that number, all I had to do was maybe change my trial testimony a bit. Maybe lie a little. Just take away your defense. Of course, they didn't expect your little maneuver with Visser.
Didn't expect that at all. That was pretty neat. Anyway, Tommy, the guys right in front of me, well, they're not rotten bastards like I am, who paid a price for their spot in this line.
Most of those guys are the good guys. Hart. There are some forgers and some engineers and some tunnel rats. They get the higher numbers, right? They're the guys who designed this thing, and did all the really hard work and just about everything else. Just about everything. But not quite everything.
So, let me ask you a question. Tommy…"
Fenelli's smile faded instantly, replaced with a harsh, hard look that said almost as much as the words that followed.
"I'm just a liar, and I got number twenty-eight. So, where do you suppose the men willing to kill a man in order to keep this tunnel a secret would be? Do you think maybe they might be at the very top of the list?"
Tommy was about to blurt out But how? when he saw the answer.
A deep, almost painful, cold shaft of fear sliced through his heart and lodged deep in his stomach. He could feel sweat burst forth on his temples, beneath his arms, and his throat went abruptly dry. He knew his hands were starting to shake, and the muscles in his thighs twitched in sudden terror.
At his side, Scott must have understood the panic that settled within
Tommy, because he said quietly, "I'll go. You can't go down there. I know that. You wait here."
But Tommy shook his head back and forth hard.
"They won't believe you, even if you did manage to come back with the truth. But they'll have to believe me."
From his position near the tunnel entrance, Fenelli chimed in: "He's right, Scott. You're the one facing the firing squad.
Got nothing to lose by lying. But there's a good chance that all these guys here, the ones not going out tonight, well, they're likely to believe what Tommy says. Because he's one of them. Been in the bag for goddamn nearly forever, and he's as white as they are. Sorry, but that's the truth."
Scott seemed to grow tense, his arms rigid. Then he nodded, although it clearly took a great effort for him to do this.
Tommy stepped forward.
Major Clark stepped into his path.
"I won't allow…" he began.
"Yes, you will," Scott said coldly. He did not need to say anything else. The major eyed the black flier, then stepped back quickly.
"You watch my back, Lincoln," Tommy said.
"I won't be long I hope" He did not wait to hear the black airman's acknowledgment.
Knowing that if he hesitated in the slightest, he wouldn't be able to force himself to do what he now knew he had to do, Tommy stepped to the edge of the tunnel.
There were candles spaced out, on hand carved ledges, leading down into the narrow pit. A single strand of half-inch-thick black German telephone cable probably stolen from the back of a truck and strong enough to hold a man's weight was fastened to the edge of the toilet, anchored there. Tommy sat down on the lip of the tunnel hole. The man beneath him passed up a bucket filled with dirt, and then squeezed back, pressing himself into the dirt of the tunnel wall. Tommy seized hold of the cable and, filled with utter terror remembered from his childhood and many hard nightmares, slowly lowered himself down into the cold emptiness waiting below him.