Hart’s War

Chapter Nineteen

Visser motioned Hugh across the administration room to a stiff-backed wooden chair next to his desk. The German's eyes followed the

Canadian's progress closely, measuring the difficulty that Hugh had with each step. Hugh slumped down into the seat hard, his face tinged red with exertion, a line of sweat on his forehead and dampening the blouse beneath his armpits. He kept his mouth shut while the German officer slowly lit his cigarette, then leaned back, letting the gray smoke curl around them both.

"I am impolite," Visser finally said softly.

"Please, Mr. Renaday, indulge yourself if you so desire." Visser motioned with his only hand to the case of cigarettes lying on the flat table between the two men.

"Thank you," Hugh answered.

"But I prefer my own." He reached into his breast pocket and removed a crumpled package of Players. The German remained silent while Hugh carefully removed a cigarette and lit it. When he inhaled the harsh smoke, he leaned back slightly in the chair. Visser smiled.

"Good," he said, "now we are behaving as civilized men, despite the lateness of the hour."

Hugh did not respond.

"So," Visser continued, maintaining an even, almost jocular tone,

"perhaps, as a civilized man, you will tell me what it is you were doing out of your assigned quarters, Mr. Renaday? Crawling flat on your belly at the edge of the as480 sembly yard. Most undignified. But why would you be doing this, flying officer?"

Hugh took another long drag on the end of the smoke.

"Well," he said carefully, "just as I told your goon who arrested me, I was simply out, taking a breath of fine German night air."

Visser grinned, as if he appreciated the joke. It was not the sort of grin that meant he was actually amused, and Hugh was filled with the first sensations of dread.

"Ah, Mr. Renaday, like so many of your countrymen, and the men they fight alongside, you seek to make sport of what I assure you is a most dangerous situation. I ask you again, why were you out of your assigned quarters after lights out?"

"No reason that concerns you," he said coldly.

Visser continued to smile, although it seemed that the grin was using up more energy than the Hauptmann thought necessary.

"But, flying officer, everything that occurs in our camp concerns me.

You know this, and still you evade my most simple question: What were you doing out of your assigned quarters?"

This time, Visser punctuated each word of the question with a small thump on the tabletop with his index finger.

"Please answer my question with no further delay, flying officer!"

Hugh shook his head.

Visser hesitated, eyeing Renaday closely.

"You think it is unreasonable for me to ask? Flying officer, I do not believe you entirely appreciate the jeopardy of your current position."

Hugh remained silent.

The German's grin had dissolved now. He wore a singular flat, angry appearance in the set of his jaw, the hardness at the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth. The scars on Visser's cheeks seemed to grow pale. He shook his head back and forth one time, then slowly, without moving from his seat, Visser reached down to his waist and with a frightening deliberateness, unstrapped the holster flap he wore, and removed a large black steel handgun. He held this up momentarily, then set it down on the desktop in front of Renaday.

"Are you familiar with this weapon, flying officer?"

Hugh shook his head in reply.

"It is a Mauser thirty-eight-caliber revolver. It is a very powerful weapon, Mr. Renaday. Every bit as powerful as the Smith and Wesson revolvers policemen in the States are armed with. It is significantly more powerful than the Webbly-Vickers revolvers that British pilots carry in their bail-out gear. It is not the standard issue for an officer of the Reich, flying officer. Ordinarily men such as myself carry a Luger semiautomatic pistol. A very effective weapon. But it requires two hands to cock and fire, and I, alas, have but the one. So I must use the Mauser, which, admittedly, is far heavier and much more cumbersome, but can be operated with a single hand, and thus it accommodates me far better.

You do understand, flying officer, do you not, that a single shot from this weapon will remove a good portion of your face, much of your head, and certainly the majority of your brains?"

Hugh took a long look at the black barrel. The gun remained on the tabletop, but Visser had swung it around so that it pointed at the Canadian. Hugh nodded.

"Good," Visser said.

"Perhaps we make some progress.

Now, I ask again, what were you doing out of your quarters?"

"Sightseeing," Hugh said coldly.

The German burst into a humorless laugh. Visser looked over at Fritz

Number One, who hovered in a corner of the room, remaining in the shadow.

"Mr. Renaday seeks to play the fool, corporal. And yet perhaps the joke will be on him. He does not seem to understand that I am well within my rights to shoot him right here. Or if I were to prefer not to make a mess in our office, to have him removed and shot directly outside. He is in violation of a clear camp rule, and the punishment is death! He hangs by the thinnest of threads, corporal, and still he plays games with us."

Pritz Number One did not reply, other than to nod and stand at attention. Visser turned back to Hugh.

"If I were to send a squad to roust the entire contingent of prisoners in Hut 101, would I find your friend Mr. Hart? Or perhaps Lieutenant

Scott? Was your sortie out this night connected to the murder trial?"

Visser held up a hand.

"You do not have to answer that, flying officer, for, of course, I already know that answer. Yes. It must be. But what?"

Hugh shook his head again.

"My name is Hugh Renaday. Flying Officer. My serial number is 472 hyphen 6712. My religion is Protestant. I believe that is all the information I am required to provide at this or any other time, Herr Hauptmann" Visser leaned back in his own seat, anger flashing from his eyes. But the words he spoke in reply were slow, icy, and filled with a patient and awful menace.

"I could not help but notice your limp, as you entered, flying officer.

You have an injury?"

Hugh shook his head.

"I'm fine."

"But then, why the so-apparent difficulty?"

"An old sports injury. Aggravated this morning."

Visser smiled again.

"Please, flying officer, place your foot up here on the desktop, so that your leg is straight."

Hugh didn't move.

"Raise your leg, flying officer. This simple act will delay my shooting you, and give you perhaps a few more seconds to consider precisely how close you are to dying."

Hugh pushed his chair back slightly, and with a great force of will raised his right leg, slapping the heel down onto the center of the table. The awkwardness of his position sent rays of pain radiating up through his hip, and for a moment, he closed his eyes to the collection of hurt that gathered in his leg.

Visser hesitated, then reached over, seizing Hugh at the knee, pressing his fingers hard into the joint, twisting them savagely.

The Canadian nearly tumbled. A bolt of agony surged through his body.

"This is painful, no?" Visser said, continuing to tear at the leg.

Hugh did not reply. Every muscle in his body was taut, fighting against the red-hot lightning of hurt that exploded within him. He was dizzy, almost unconscious, and he fought to maintain some control.

Visser released the leg.

"I can have you hurt, before I have you shot, flying officer.

I can have it so that the pain will be so intense that you will welcome the bullet that ends it. Now, I ask one last time:

What were you doing out of your quarters?"

Hugh breathed in sharply, trying to calm the waves of agony that ebbed and flowed within him.

"Your answer, please, flying officer. Please keep in mind that your life depends upon it," Visser demanded sharply.

For the second time that night, Hugh Renaday realized that the string of his own life had reached its end. He took another deep breath, and finally said, "I was looking for you, Herr Hauptmann."

Visser looked slightly surprised.

"Me? But why would you want to see me, flying officer?"

"To spit in your face," Hugh replied. As he finished, he spat hard at the German. But his parched, dry mouth could not summon any saliva, and he merely sprayed futilely in Visser's direction.

The Hauptmann recoiled slightly. Then he shook his head, and wiped at the desktop with the sleeve of his one arm. He raised his pistol and pointed it in Hugh's face. He held it there for several seconds, aiming straight at Hugh's forehead. The German thumbed back the pistol hammer and then pressed the barrel directly against the Canadian's flesh. A cold that went far beyond all the pulsating pain in his body filled Hugh.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything except the moment about to arrive. Seconds passed. Almost a minute.

He did not dare open his eyes.

Then Visser smiled again.

He pulled the weapon back.

Hugh felt the pressure of the barrel slide away, and after a pause, opened his eyes. He saw Visser slowly lower the huge Mauser and, with an exaggerated motion, return it to his holster, snapping the leather flap shut tightly.

Hugh's breath came in raspy bursts. His eyes were fixed on the revolver. He wanted to feel relief, but felt nothing but fear.

"You think yourself fortunate, flying officer, to still be alive?"

Hugh nodded.

"This is sad," Visser said harshly. He turned to Fritz Number One.

"Corporal, please summon a Feldwebel, and have him collect an appropriate squad of men. I want this prisoner taken out immediately and shot."

"Scott is innocent."

"Scott is innocent."

From man to man down the length of the tunnel, the single message echoed. That the three words dragged along with them dozens of other questions was ignored in the close, hot, dirty, and dangerous world of the escape. Each kriegie knew only that the message was as important as the final two or three strokes with the pickax, and each kriegie knew that there was a sort of freedom contained within the three words, a freedom nearly as powerful as that they were crawling toward, so the message was passed along with a ferocity that nearly matched the intensity of the battle that Tommy had fought to acquire them. None of the men knew what had taken place at the front of the tunnel. But they all knew that with the twin extremes of death and escape so close, no one would lie. So by the time the message reached back to the anteroom at the base of the shaft leading down from the privy in Hut 107, the words carried a sort of intoxicating religious fervor.

The fighter pilot from New York leaned forward, over the top of the bellows, craning to hear the message being passed back from the next man in line. He listened carefully, as did the man working beside him, who used the moment to seize a second's rest from the backbreaking work of lifting the buckets of sandy earth.

"Repeat that," the fighter pilot whispered.

"Scott is innocent!" he heard.

"Got it?"

"I got it."

The fighter pilot and the kriegie lifting buckets looked at each other momentarily. Then both grinned.

The fighter pilot turned and peered up the shaft of the tunnel.

"Hey, up there! Message from the front…"

Major Clark stepped forward, almost elbowing Lincoln Scott aside in his eagerness. He knelt at the side of the entranceway, bending over into the pit.

"What is it? Have they reached the surface?"

The weak candlelight flickered off the upturned faces of the two men in the tunnel anteroom. The pilot from New York shrugged.

"Well, kinda," he said.

"What's the message?" Clark demanded sharply.

"Scott is innocent!" the fighter pilot said. The bucket man nodded hard.

Clark did not reply. He straightened up.

Lincoln Scott heard the words, but for a moment, the impact of them did not occur to him. He was watching the major, who was shaking his head back and forth, as if fighting off the explosion of the words spoken in such a small space.

Fenelli, however, caught the importance immediately. Not merely in the message, but how it was passed along. He, too, leaned over into the shaft and whispered down to the men below: "That come all the way from the front? From Hart and Numbers One and Two?"

"Yes. All the way. Pass it back!" the fighter pilot urged.

Fenelli sat up, smiling.

Major Clark's face was rigid.

"You'll do nothing of the sort, lieutenant! That message stops right here."

Fenelli's mouth opened slightly in astonishment.

"What?" he said.

Major Clark looked at the doctor-in-training and spoke, almost as if Lincoln Scott abruptly had disappeared from the room, ignoring the black flier.

"We don't know for sure how or why or where that message came from and we don't know, I mean. Hart could have forced it out or something. We don't have any answers, and I won't allow it to be spread."

Fenelli shook his head. He looked over at Scott.

Scott stepped forward, thrusting his chest in front of Major Clark. For a moment his outrage seemed to take him over, and the black flier quivered with the desire to simply lay a right uppercut into the chin of the major. But he fought off this urge, and replaced it with the hardest, coldest stare he could manage.

"What is it about the truth that bothers you so much, major?"

Clark recoiled. He did not reply.

Scott moved to the edge of the tunnel entrance.

"Either the truth comes out, or no one goes in," he said quietly.

Major Clark coughed, eyeing the black flier, trying to measure the determination in his face.

"There's no time left," Clark said.

"That's right," Fenelli said briskly.

"No damn time left."

Then the medic from Cleveland looked past the major, and made a small wave toward one of the dirt bucket men, hovering in the doorway to the privy.

"Hey!" Fenelli said loudly.

"You got the word from the front?"

The man shook his head.

"Well," Fenelli said, breaking into a grin.

"Scott is innocent.

It's the real dope and it came from the head of the tunnel. Now, you pass that on. Everybody in this hut is to know. Scott is innocent!

And you tell everybody the line is gonna move any second now, so to get ready."

The man hesitated, looked once over at Scott, and then smiled. He turned and whispered to the next man in the corridor, and that man nodded, once he heard the message. It went down the center of the hut, to all the men waiting to escape, and all the men standing by in the support roles, and all the fliers gathered in the doorway of each barracks room, creating a buzz of excitement that seemed to reverberate in the enclosed tight spaces.

Scott stepped away from the tunnel entrance, pushing to the side of the small privy. He understood what the weight of the single phrase was, spread through the men in Hut 107. He knew it would sweep rapidly far beyond the confines of the hut, as soon as the sun rose. It would certainly be all over the camp within hours, and might possibly, if the men escaping were lucky, be the words they carried with them to freedom. It was a weight that Major Clark and Colonel MacNamara and Captain Walker Townsend and all the men trying to put his back against a wall and make him face a firing squad would not be able to lift. The weight of innocence.

He took a deep breath and looked toward the hole in the floor. Now, Lincoln Scott thought quietly, that the truth has come out from underground, it is time for Tommy Hart to emerge.

But instead of the lanky form of the law student from Vermont, another message came ricocheting down the tunnel.

Nicholas Fenelli, eyes brightening, voice husky with sudden excitement, looked over toward Scott and whispered:

"They're through! We're moving out!"

Tommy Hart stood, balancing precariously near the top rung of the ladder, his face lifted toward a six-inch hole in the roof of dirt, drinking in the heady wine of the fresh night air that poured into the tunnel. In his right hand, he held the pickax.

Below him. Murphy and the band leader were feverishly wiping dirt from their faces with a thin piece of cloth, and scrambling into their escape clothing.

The band leader-musician, murderer, tunnel king-could not resist a single hushed question: "Hart? How does it smell?"

Tommy hesitated, then whispered his reply: "Sweet."

He, too, was covered with the sweaty grime of digging. For the past ten minutes he had taken over from the two other men, who had fallen back, exhausted with the effort that digging the last few feet required. Tommy, though, felt a surge of energy. He had nailed away at the dirt with a furious vigor, tearing at the clods of earth with the pickax until one clod came free covered with grass.

He continued to breathe in deeply. The air was so rich he thought it might make him dizzy.

"Hart! Come on down," the band leader hissed.

Tommy took one long swig of night, and reluctantly lowered himself back into the pit. He faced the two men. Even in the light of a single candle, Tommy could see both their faces flushed with excitement. It was as if, in that moment, the lure of freedom were so powerful that it managed to overcome all the doubts and fears about what the next hours would hold.

"Okay, Hart, here's the drill. I'm going to fix a rope from the top rung and lead it out to a nearby tree. You're gonna be the watchdog by the tree. Hart. Each kriegie's gonna come to the top of that ladder and wait there for a signal-two quick tugs-that will let him know the coast is clear. Try to move a man along every two to three minutes. No faster, but no slower, either. That'll avoid attention and maybe get us back on our timetable. Once they get out, they know what to do.

When everybody's out, you can head back down the tunnel and get back inside the compound."

"Why can't I wait here?"

"No time. Hart. Those men deserve their chance and you can't get in the way. Literally."

Tommy nodded. He could see the sense in what the band leader was saying. The musician stuck out his hand.

"Look me up in the French Quarter sometime, Hart."

Tommy looked down at the man's hand. He imagined it reaching up around Trader Vic's throat. He understood, too, that only a few minutes earlier, that same hand was trying to kill him. Amid the heat, the dirt, and the fear that closed in on all of them waiting inside the tunnel, everything had abruptly changed. He reached out and took the man's hand. The band leader smiled, his wide grin flashing white in the darkness.

"You were right about another thing, too. Hart. I am indeed left-handed."

"You're a killer," Tommy said quietly.

"We're all killers," the man replied.

Tommy shook his head slowly, but the musician laughed.

"Yes, we are, no matter what you say. We may not be again, when all this is said and done and we're home sitting around the fireplace growing old and telling war stories. But right now, right here, we all are. You. Me. Murphy, there, and Scott, too. MacNamara, Clark, hell, everybody. Including Trader Vic. He just might have been the worst of all of us, 'cause he ended up killing even if by mistake for no reason other than to make his own sorry life a little easier" The musician shook his head.

"Not much of a reason for dying, is it?" Then he looked over at Tommy, still holding onto his hand.

"You think, Tommy boy, that the truth about all this is ever gonna see the light of day?" Before Tommy could reply, the musician shook his head.

"I'm not thinking so, Tommy Hart. I'm not thinking that the army is all too fine on the idea of telling the world that some of its finest heroes are also some of its very best killers. No sir. I don't think this is a story they'll be particularly eager to tell."

Tommy swallowed hard.

"Good luck," he said.

"New Orleans.

I'll make a point of it, someday."

"Buy you a drink," the band leader said.

"Hell, Tommy, we make it home in one piece, I'll buy you a dozen drinks. We can drink to the truth and how it don't never do nobody no good."

"I don't know that's right," Tommy replied.

The musician laughed, shrugged, and climbed the ladder.

In his hand, the band leader carried a long coil of thin rope.

Tommy could see him fix the rope to the top rung, and then tear a few more clods of dirt free. They tumbled down onto Tommy, and he blinked, and ducked his head away. The musician paused, and suddenly blew out the last candle. In the split-second that followed, the band leader wiggled through the hole in the earth, suddenly bathed in a wan half-light from the moon, and disappeared.

Murphy grunted. He had no similar pleasantries for Tommy.

He rose up, following. Behind him. Tommy could hear Number Three moving down the tunnel like some excited crab scrambling through the sand. Tommy saw Murphy's legs kick for a moment, trying to gain some purchase in the crumbling dirt of the tunnel exit. Then Tommy lifted himself up the ladder.

At the top, he seized the rope. There were two sharp tugs, and then Tommy, without thinking, thrust himself out of the hole, climbing as quickly as he could. He was barely aware that, suddenly, he had climbed out and was scrambling across the moss and pine-needle floor of the forest. He felt a wave of cold air encapsulate him, washing over him like a shower on a hot day. He threw himself forward, keeping the rope in his hands, until he reached the base of a large pine tree. The rope was tied there, perhaps forty feet away from the hole in the ground. Tommy slumped back against the tree. He could hear scratching noises coming from the underbrush, and he guessed that was the noise of Murphy and the band leader making their way through the tangled forest foliage, heading for the road to town. For a second he thought it was immense, a thunderous noise, destined to draw every light, every guard, and every gun, right in his direction. He shrank back against the tree, and listened, letting the world fill with silence.

Tommy took a deep breath and pivoted about.

The tunnel had emerged just inside the dark edge of the forest. The barbed-wire walls glinted perhaps fifty yards distant.

The nearest machine-gun tower was at least another thirty yards beyond that, and facing in, toward the center of the camp. The goons inside would have their backs to the escape.

And any Hundfuhrer walking the outside perimeter would also be looking in the opposite direction. The tunnel engineers had painstakingly surveyed their distances, and had done an excellent job.

For a moment, his head reeled, as he understood suddenly where he was.

Beyond the wire. Beyond the searchlights. Behind the machine-gun sights. He looked up, and through the covering canopy of tree branches he could see the last stars of the night blinking in the great expanse of the heavens. For a second, he felt as if he were one with all that distance, all those millions of black miles of space.

Tommy thought: I'm free.

He almost burst out in laughter. He rolled back against the tree trunk, squeezing his arms tight around his body, as if he could contain within himself the burst of excitement.

Then he turned his attention to the task before him. A quick glance at the watch Lydia had placed on his wrist so many years earlier told him that dawn's light would begin to creep out of the east in not nearly enough time for all seventy-five men to get out. Not at a rate of one every three minutes.

Tommy took a fast look around, inspecting the darkness, and saw that he was completely alone. He gave the rope two quick tugs. Seconds later he saw the shaky outline of Number Three kicking his way free of the tunnel.

The two guards who had accompanied Hugh from the assembly yard to the command barracks were sitting on the wooden front steps, smoking the bitter German ration of cigarettes and complaining to each other that they should have searched the Canadian and seized his Players before leading him into the offices. Both men leapt up when Fritz Number One walked out of the front door, snapping quickly to attention, tossing their smokes into the darkness, where they made red ellipses of burning coal for an instant, before dying out.

Fritz threw a single look back over his shoulder, making certain that Hauptmann Visser had not followed him outside.

Then he spoke rapidly and sharply to the two privates.

"You," he pointed at the man on the right.

"You are to go inside directly and keep the prisoner under guard.

Hauptmann Visser has ordered the prisoner's execution, and you are to make certain that he does not attempt to escape!"

The guard snapped his boots together and saluted.

"Ja wohl!" he said briskly. The guard grabbed his weapon and headed toward the office entrance.

"Now you," Fritz said, speaking softly and with caution.

"You are to follow these orders precisely."

The second guard nodded, listening closely.

"Hauptmann Visser has ordered the execution of the Canadian officer.

You are to go directly to the guards' barracks and find Feldwebel Voeller. He is on duty this night. You are to inform him of the

Hauptmann's order, and request that he immediately assemble a firing squad and bring it here double-time…"

The man nodded a second time. Fritz took a deep breath.

His own throat was parched and dry, and he realized that he was walking a line every bit as dangerous as the one walked that night by Hugh

Renaday.

"There is a field telephone in the guards' barracks. Tell Voeller that it is imperative that he receive confirmation of this order from

Commandant Von Reiter. Imperative! He is to do this without delay! In that way, he will arrive back here with the firing squad before the prisoners have awakened!

This must all be accomplished quickly, do you understand?"

The man threw his shoulders back.

"Confirmation from the commandant " "Even though it means awakening him at his home…"

Fritz interrupted.

"And returning with the firing squad. As ordered, corporal!"

Fritz Number One nodded slowly himself, then dismissed the guard with a wave. The man pivoted and took off at a run, pounding up the dusty camp road toward the guards' barracks.

Fritz hoped the telephone in the hut was operating.

It had a nasty habit of failing three out of four times. He swallowed hard and dry. He did not know whether Commandant Von Reiter would confirm Hauptmann Visser's order or not. He knew only one thing: Someone was going to die that night.

Behind him, Fritz Number One heard the door open and boot steps on the wooden planks. He turned about and saw Hauptmann Visser exiting from the offices. He, too, snapped to attention.

"I have given your orders, Herr Hauptmann. A man has gone to bring

Feldwebel Voeller and a firing squad."

Visser grunted and returned the salute. He stepped down from the stairs and looked up into the sky. Visser smiled.

"The Canadian officer was correct. It is a fine night, do you not think, corporal?"

Fritz Number One nodded.

"Yes sir."

"It would be a fine night for many things." Visser paused.

"Do you have an electric torch, corporal? A flashlight?"

"Yes sir."

"Then give it to me."

Fritz Number One handed over the flashlight.

"I think," Visser said, still peering up into the dark heavens, before lowering his eyes and sweeping them across the expanse of the camp, and the wire that glinted in distant lights, "that I shall take a bit of a walk myself. Just to take in a little of the fine night air, as the flying officer so helpfully suggested."

Visser clicked on the flashlight. Its weak spray of light illuminated the dusty ground a few feet in front of him.

"Make certain that my orders are followed without delay," he said.

Then, without another look, Visser started off, marching quickly, with determination, heading toward the line of trees on the far side of the compound.

Fritz Number One watched for several minutes, alone in the darkness outside the administration building. He was torn between the conflicts of orders and duties. He understood, however, that the commandant, who was his great benefactor, did not approve of Visser operating unseen.

Fritz thought it ironic that his job at the camp required him to spy on both types of enemies.

He gave the Hauptmann a head start of another couple of minutes. Just to the point where the weak light the officer held in his only hand had almost disappeared in the faraway darkness. Then Fritz Number One stepped out from the front of the building and moving steadily through the last of the night, followed after him.

Tommy kept moving the escaping kriegies through the tunnel in sturdy, slow fashion, patiently sticking to the timetable that the band leader had told him, tugging on the rope every two to three minutes. Flier after flier launched himself through the ragged hole in the earth and crawled to the base of the tree, where Tommy remained poorly hidden. A couple of the men seemed surprised to see him alive. Others merely grunted before disappearing into the woods that stretched out behind him. But most of the kriegies had a quick, reassuring word for Tommy.

A pat on the back. A whispered, "Good luck," or "See yah in Times Square!" The man from Princeton had added a "Well done. Harvard. They must have taught you something worthwhile at that second-rate institution…" before he, too, slipped silently into the cover of trees and bushes.

It was frustrating going. More than once Tommy had held his breath when he'd detected the figure of a. Hundfuhrer and his dog moving along the far edge of the wire. Once a searchlight had clicked on in the tower closest to the escape, but had swung its probing beam in the opposite direction. Tommy remained huddled by the tree, trying to be alert to every sound around him, thinking that any single noise could be the noise of betrayal. And any sound could signal death. Either for himself or for one of the men setting off toward town, the station, and the series of morning trains that would carry them away from Stalag Luft Thirteen.

Every few seconds. Tommy glanced down at the dial of his watch and thought that the escape was moving along too slowly. The steady creep of morning would bring the escape to a halt as rapidly as discovery.

But he knew also that hurrying would just as swiftly defeat the escape.

He gritted his teeth and stuck to the plan.

Some seventeen of the men spread down the length of the tunnel had made it up and out when Tommy first spotted the weak flashlight beam bouncing erratically toward him, probably no more than thirty yards away. The light was moving right at the edge of the forest, not along the wire in the hands of a Hundfrihrer, on a collision path with the tunnel exit.

He froze in position, watching the light.

It probed and penetrated, swinging first one way, then another, like a dog just picking up an unusual scent on a wayward wind. He could tell that whoever was behind the light was hunting, but not searching in a systemized, deliberate fashion. More curious, almost questioning, with a slight element of uncertainty in each movement. Tommy pushed himself back, trying to blend against the tree, gingerly swinging around behind, so that he was completely concealed. And then, he understood, hiding did him no good.

The light moved forward, closing the distance.

He could feel his heart accelerating within his chest.

There is a spot far beyond fear that soldiers find, where all the children of terror and death are arrayed against them. It is a terrible and deadly location where some men find paralysis and others are trapped within a miasma of loss and agony.

Tommy was perilously close to that spot, as his muscles twitched and his breath came in short raspy bursts, watching the slow progress of the light inexorably closing in on the escape hole. He could see that there was no chance that the German on the other end of the light would miss the exit, and certainly no chance he would miss the rope stretched across the ground. And Tommy could see, as well, that there was no way he could race forward and throw himself down the tunnel without instantly being seen and an alarm sounded. In that second, he understood: He was as good as captured. Perhaps as good as shot.

He caught his breath.

Tommy knew, as well, that waiting on the top rung of the ladder, eagerly anticipating the two tugs on the rope that would signal his chance had arrived, was Number Eighteen.

He tried, in that moment, to remember who Eighteen was. He had pushed past him, in the narrowness of the tunnel, it seemed hours earlier, been close enough to smell the man's anxious sweat, feel his breath, but still Tommy couldn't put a face to the number. Number Eighteen was a flier, just as he was, and Tommy knew he was poised, inches below the surface of the earth, eager, nervous, excited, and expectant, perhaps a little impatient, the rope tight in his hands, praying for his opportunity and praying, probably, for the same thing that all men who know that death is lurking close by, with all its capriciousness, pray for.

The light swung a few yards closer.

In that second. Tommy realized it was completely up to him.

With every foot that brought the light closer, the choice became clearer. More denned. It was not that he was being called upon to risk everything as much as it was that everyone else had risked so much and he was the only man available to protect the chances and hopes taken that night. He had foolishly believed that descending into that tunnel and fighting for the truth about Lincoln Scott and Trader Vic had been the only test he would undergo that night. But he was wrong, for the real battle lay directly in front of him, moving slowly yet steadily toward the tunnel exit. He had been young when he enlisted in the air corps, and filled with a patriotic fervor when he entered his first battle, only to come quickly to understand that there is much in war that is brave, little that is truly noble. It is only in the distant outcome that historians debate where some sense of nobility reigns. Instead, what is delivered in the most hellish of fashions are the most elemental of hard and dirty choices, where all that Tommy had once been and all he hoped he might be paled harshly when measured against the urgent needs of so many men that night.

Bookish Tommy Hart a student of laws and a most unlikely warrior, who in truth wanted nothing more than to return home to the girl he loved and the life he'd lived, and the life he'd promised himself with all his hard work and studies swallowed hard, clenched his hands into fists, and slowly started to move, angling toward the approaching light.

He moved stealthily, commando like his eyes focused on the threat, his throat parched, his heart pounding, his task suddenly and terribly crystalline.

He remembered what the band leader had said in the tunnel: We're all killers.

He hoped the musician was right.

Tommy closed on the target, barely daring to breathe.

The hole in the ground that he was maneuvering to protect was behind him, obliquely. The light beam in front still swung haphazardly back and forth. He could not see who wielded the light, but he was relieved when he craned his head forward, and couldn't detect the accompanying sound of a dog's sniffing and shuffling.

The light moved a few steps closer, and Tommy tensed each muscle, poised in ambush.

A few feet behind him, hidden just beneath the surface of the ground.

Number Eighteen could no longer stand the tension of waiting for a signal. He had raced through all the possibilities for delay in his head, measuring each of the dangers against the overwhelming need to get up and get moving. He knew how tight the schedule was, and knew, as well, that the only men who truly stood a chance at successfully escaping were the men who made it to the train station before any sort of alarm was given. Number Eighteen had worked many hours digging the tunnel, and more than once had been pulled choking from dusty cave-ins, and with an impulsiveness born of youth, had rashly decided within himself that breaking free was more important even than life. He could not stand the idea of coming so close to the outside of the wire and not making a run for it. And so his impatience overcame whatever bonds of reason he had remaining after spending so many hours flat on his stomach in the tunnel, and he decided in that second to make his move, signal or not.

He reached both hands up, thrusting himself through the hole, up into the clear air, pushing himself like a man vaulting out of a pool of water.

The noise froze Tommy.

The light beam swung in the direction of the scrambling sound, and

Tommy heard a surprised and whispered German, "Mein Gott!"

Visser could just see, at the edge of the faint beam, the dark shape of

Number Eighteen, bursting forward out of the exit hole and hightailing it into the woods. The shocked Hauptmann took several quick steps forward and then stopped. As quickly as he could, he lifted the flashlight to his mouth, to hold it there, the only way that he could get his hand free to seize his pistol. It was, of course, the luckiest thing for the escapees, for the pressure of the light between his teeth kept Visser from immediately shouting out an alarm. The German pulled furiously at the holster flap and grabbed at the Mauser strapped at his waist.

He had nearly tugged the weapon free when Tommy smashed into him, aiming high on his chest, like a fullback protecting a ball carrier.

The impact nearly knocked the wind from both men. The flashlight was thrown into a bush, its deadly beam smothered by leaves and branches.

Tommy did not see this. He thrust himself at the German, grabbing for the man's throat.

The two men tangled together, falling backward, the force of Tommy assault carrying them just within the line of trees at the forest's edge, pushing them out of sight of the towers and the guards walking the far perimeter. They were locked together, anonymously, in the pitch black.

At first. Tommy did not know who he was fighting. He knew only that the man was the enemy, and that he had with him a light, a gun, and perhaps the most dangerous weapon of all, his voice. Each of these three things could kill him with ease, and Tommy knew that he had to fight against each. He tried to find the light, but it had disappeared, and so he punched out, flailing fists desperately, trying to neutralize the other two dangers.

Visser rolled sideways against the force of the assault, fighting back.

He was a cold, highly trained, and experienced soldier, and he knew instantly what the stakes were. He absorbed the blows from Tommy's fists raining down on him, and concentrated on finding the Mauser. He kicked back with both legs, landing one shot to Tommy's midsection, hearing a sharp exhale of breath.

Although it was not in Visser's nature to call for help, he tried to do this.

"Help!" he managed to squeeze out weakly, his own lungs still raging with the loss of air from Tommy's initial attack. The word seemed to linger around the two struggling men, then dissipate in the darkness surrounding them. Visser seized at the night air, filling his chest to bellow a cry for assistance, but, in that second. Tommy's hand found his mouth.

Tommy had landed nearly behind the German. He was able to wrap one leg around the German's midsection, pulling him back on top of him, deeper into the shadows of the forest. At the same time. Tommy thrust his left hand deep into the German's mouth, stuffing Visser's throat with his own fingers, trying to choke the German. He was still only obliquely aware that there was a weapon, and it took him another half-second to realize that the man he fought had but one arm.

"Visser!" he whispered sharply.

The German didn't reply, although Tommy could sense that he had recognized Tommy's voice. Instead, he kicked and struggled and grasped at his pistol. He also brought all his teeth crunching down into the soft flesh of Tommy's left hand, biting deeply into the skin.

The pain shot through Tommy as teeth tore through muscle and tendon, searching for bone. He groaned as a sheet of red agony nearly blinded him.

But he fought on, pushing his now ravaged hand deeper into the German's throat. With his free hand, he found Visser's wrist. He could sense from the weight that the German had almost managed to free the pistol, and was directing all his strength to withdrawing it and firing a shot.

Tommy understood, even though his head was filled with nothing but hurt and he could feel blood pulsing from his hand, that merely firing a shot into the air could kill him as effectively as putting the barrel to his chest and firing a shot into his heart. So he ignored the growing fury of the pain in his left hand, and concentrated on the German's only arm, and the effort it was making to reach the pistol butt and trigger. In the oddest of ways, the entire war, years long, millions of deaths, a struggle between cultures and nations, came down, for Tommy, to the single fight to control that pistol. He ignored the savagery Visser's teeth were wreaking on his left hand and fought only for the smallest victory, over that pistol.

He could sense Visser's fingers straining to reach the trigger guard, and he furiously pulled back. The Mauser seemed balanced, partway free of the stiff and shiny black leather holster. Its cumbersome shape and heavy weight were the smallest of advantages in Tommy's favor, but

Visser's strength was considerable. The German was a powerfully built man, and much of his strength was concentrated in that sole remaining arm, and Tommy could sense that the balance of this fight within the fight was shifting in Visser's favor.

And so he took a chance. Instead of pulling back, he suddenly thrust forward, twisting with his hand. Visser's fingers jammed against the trigger guard, and one of them abruptly snapped. The German moaned in pain, pushing the guttural sound past Tommy's bloody left hand that still threatened to choke him.

The Mauser seemed to teeter on the edge of possession, and then tumbled away, falling into the moss and dirt of the forest, its black metal body immediately swallowed up by the surrounding darkness.

Visser knew the gun was lost, and so he redoubled his fight, crunching down again with his teeth, destroying much of Tommy's left hand, and flailing away with his right. The German tried to struggle up, but Tommy's legs wrapped around him, so that they fought almost as close as lovers, but with murder their only kiss.

Tommy ignored the punches that crashed painfully against him, ignored the agony that shot from his hand, and pulled Visser back. He had never been trained in how to kill a man with his hands, had never even considered it. The only fights he'd had growing up were shoving and pushing matches that relied mostly on angry words and insults and usually ended with one or both boys in tears. No fight he had ever experienced, not even the battle in the tunnel earlier that night, when he'd fought for the truth, seemed as concentrated as this one.

None were even as deadly as the battles that Lincoln Scott fought, gloved and refereed, in a boxing ring.

This, he knew, was something far different. It was a fight that had only one answer. The German punched and kicked and crushed down with his teeth, tearing away at the flesh of Tommy's hand, but Tommy suddenly felt no more pain at all.

It was as if a total coldness of instinct and desire overwhelmed him in those few seconds and he gritted his teeth and started to pull back as hard as he could on the German's neck, working his right knee into the small of Visser's back for leverage.

Visser instantly felt the threat, felt the strain filling his neck, and struggled to break free. He clawed with every ounce of hatred he could muster to overcome the fierce grip that Tommy held on him. If he'd had two arms, the fight would have ended swiftly in the German's favor, but the Spitfire bullet that took Visser's arm had crippled him in other ways, too. For an instant, they teetered on the edge of indecision, one man's strength against the other, each man's body twisted as taut and stiff as dried leather.

Visser mounted one great surge, biting, kicking, pounding with his free hand. The blows crashed down on Tommy, who closed his eyes and pulled harder, realizing that to slip even the smallest measure would cost him the fight and his life.

And then Tommy heard a sickening crack.

The sound of Visser's back snapping was perhaps the ugliest, most urgent sound he'd heard in his entire life. The German gasped once in the astonishment of death before going limp in Tommy's arms, and it was another few seconds before Tommy let slide the unconscious man's body.

He pulled his left hand free from Visser's mouth. The pain redoubled, almost unbearably, and for a second he felt his own head swimming, on the edge of blackness himself. He leaned back, clutching his torn and bloody hand to his chest.

The night around them seemed suddenly pristine, utterly quiet. He put his head back and took in a deep breath of air, trying to regain his own senses, struggling to impose order and reason on the world around him.

He became aware slowly of the other sounds nearby. The first was that Visser was still breathing. Tommy realized then that he had to finish the job. And for perhaps the first time in his life, he prayed that the German would die before he was forced to steal the unconscious and dying man's last breath.

"Please die," he whispered.

And this the German did, rattling once softly.

Relief flooded Tommy, and he almost burst out in a laugh.

He looked up into the stars and sky, and saw that there was the smallest suggestion of light beginning to streak across the eastern horizon. It is an astonishing thing, he thought, to be alive when you have no right to be.

His hand was throbbing with pain. He could sense that Visser's teeth had nearly severed one, maybe more, of his fingers, which flopped uselessly against his chest. The flesh of his fist was torn and ripped. Blood pulsed over his shirt and surges of pain raced up his forearm and clouded his head.

He knew he had to bind the wound, and he bent over to Visser's inert body. He quickly found a silken handkerchief in the dead German's tunic pocket. Tommy wrapped this as tightly as he could around his hand to try to stem the bleeding.

Tommy tried to sort through the situation. He knew only that much was at risk, but his exhaustion and pain prevented him from thinking altogether clearly. He could remember only that there were men still waiting in the tunnel, and that now the escape was even more behind schedule, so he determined that the only thing he could do was get it back up and moving, and although fatigue and hurt filled every fiber of his body, that was what he decided to do.

But although he made this decision deep within himself, he was at first unable to get his ravaged muscles to respond.

He stole one more breath of air, trying to push himself to his feet, only to slump back against a nearby tree. He told himself that it would be all right to rest for just a second and he started to close his eyes, only to feel a sudden shaft of fear crash through him. His eyes went almost blind with cold terror.

The flashlight's beam, which had been swallowed up by the forest, suddenly rose, ghostlike, a few feet away, swung around once, as it renewed its awful search, and then, before he could gather any of whatever remaining strength he possessed to scramble for cover, landed directly on his face.

Death is a trickster. Tommy thought. Just when you think you have it fooled, it turns the tables on you. He leaned back and lifted his good hand in front of his eyes to deflect the light and the shot he expected to hear within seconds.

But what he heard, instead, was a familiar voice.

"Mr. Hart! My God! What are you doing here?"

Tommy smiled and shook his head, unable to answer Fritz

Number One's most sensible question. He made a small gesture with his good hand, and in the same second the ferret's light captured the twisted form of the German officer, lying prone a few feet away.

"My God!" the ferret whispered.

Tommy leaned back, closing his eyes. He did not think he had the strength to fight again. He could hear Fritz Number One gasping, repeating, now in German, "Them Gott! Them Gott!" and then adding,

"Escape!" as the ferret sorted through what was happening. Tommy was only slightly aware that Fritz Number One was tearing at his own bolstered sidearm, and reaching for the ubiquitous whistle that all the ferrets carried in their tunic pockets. He wanted to shout a warning to Number Nineteen, waiting at the top rung of the ladder inside the tunnel, but he didn't even have the strength for that.

He waited for the sound of the alarm.

It did not come.

Tommy slowly opened his eyes, and saw Fritz Number One standing beside

Visser's body. The ferret had the whistle at his lips, and his own weapon in his hand. Then Fritz slowly turned and stared at Tommy, the whistle still pointed at his mouth.

"They will shoot you, Mr. Hart," he whispered.

"To kill a German officer while attempting to escape…"

"I know, "Tommy said.

"Didn't have a choice."

Fritz raised the whistle to his lips, then stopped, slowly lowering it.

He swung the flashlight beam toward the hole in the earth that Tommy had protected, and let it linger on the rope tied to the tree.

"My God," he said again, softly.

Tommy remained silent. He did not understand why the ferret had not summoned assistance and sounded the alarm.

Fritz Number One seemed to be trapped in thought, assessing, measuring, weighing details and debts. Then, suddenly, he bent down toward Tommy and whispered sharply:

"Tell the men in the tunnel the escape is finished! Kaput! Over! Go back to their barracks immediately! The alarm is about to sound. Tell them this now, Mr. Hart. It is your only chance!"

Tommy caught his breath. He wasn't certain what the German was doing, but he recognized he was being given some sort of an opportunity, and he seized at it. Not certain from where he managed to summon the energy, he scrambled across the mossy forest grass to the edge of the tunnel. He leaned over and saw the upturned face of Number Nineteen, waiting.

"Krauts!" Tommy whispered urgently.

"Everywhere! Everybody back up fast! The jig is up for tonight!"

"Shit!" Number Nineteen swore under his breath.

"Goddamn it to hell!" he added, but he didn't hesitate. Number Nineteen dropped swiftly through the narrow tunnel shaft and started to crawl back down the tunnel. Tommy could hear the muffled sound of conversation when Nineteen met Twenty, but could not make out the words, though he knew what they had to be.

He rolled over, and saw that Fritz Number One stood a few feet away. He had extinguished the flashlight, but there was just enough of the first light of morning beginning to creep through the tops of the trees to give his form a dark and ghostly outline. The ferret was waving toward Tommy urgently.

Tommy half-crawled, half-ran, back to where the ferret stood.

"There is only one chance for you, Mr. Hart. Bring the body and follow me, now. Do not ask any questions, but hurry!"

Tommy shook his head.

"My hand," he said.

"I don't think I have the strength…"

"Then you will die here," Fritz Number One replied flatly.

"The choice is yours, Mr. Hart. But you must make it now. I cannot touch the Hauptmann's body. Either lift it now, or die beside him.

But, I think, it would be wrong to let a man such as he kill you, Mr. Hart."

Tommy inhaled deeply. His imagination flooded with images of home, of school, of Lydia. He remembered his captain from Texas with his flat, dry laughter: Find its the way home. Tommy, willya? And Phillip Pryce, with his own sniffling sort of joy in the smallest and smartest of things. He thought right then that only a true coward turns his back on a chance at life, no matter how hard and slender that chance might be. And so, knowing that his reserves were well past exhaustion, with only the strength of desire remaining to him, Tommy bent down and with a great grunt, managed to sling the German officer's body over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. The body crunched sickeningly, and for a moment Tommy thought he might throw up. Then, staggering, he lifted himself to his feet, struggling to maintain his balance.

"Now, quickly," Fritz Number One urged.

"You must beat the morning light or all will be lost!"

Tommy smiled at the German's archaic turn of phrase, but saw as well that the gray streaks of dawn flitting on the horizon were taking root, growing stronger with each second.

He took a single step forward, half-stumbled, righted himself, and with what little voice he had, said, "Go ahead. I'm ready now."

Fritz Number One nodded, then pushed forward, deeper into the forest.

Tommy struggled after the German. Visser's weight was crushing, almost as if, even in death, the German was fighting to kill him.

Branches tore at his face. Tree roots threatened to trip him.

The forest ripped and grabbed at his every step, slowing him, trying to knock him to the ground. Tommy pushed through, slogging beneath the dead weight, fighting with every stride to maintain his balance, searching with every foot forward for the strength to go another.

His breathing was coming in exhausted short bursts. Sweat clogged his eyes. The pain in his left hand was nearly unbearable.

It throbbed and surged and sent fierce reminders searing through the rest of his body. It seemed to Tommy that he had no more strength, and then he would refuse to admit this and he would find just a little more, enough to stumble forward a few more feet.

He had no idea how far they traveled. Fritz Number One turned and urged him, "Quickly, Mr. Hart! Quickly. Not much farther!" and with those words. Tommy battled ahead.

Visser on his shoulder no longer seemed like something of this world; instead, he was like some great black crushing evil, trying to defeat him.

Just when he reached the point where he did not think he could travel another foot, he saw Fritz Number One abruptly stop, and kneel down.

The German gestured for Tommy to come forward next to him. Tommy staggered these few yards, and then dropped to the earth.

"Where…" he managed, but Fritz hushed him.

"Quiet. There are guards nearby. Can you not smell where you are?"

Tommy wiped his face with his good hand and breathed in through his nose. Only then did he become aware of the mingled smells of human waste and death that clogged the forest air around them. He looked at Fritz Number One quizzically.

"The Russian work camp!" Fritz whispered.

Then the German pointed.

"Take the body as close as you dare and leave it. Be quiet, Mr. Hart.

The guards here will not hesitate to shoot at any noise. And put this in the Hauptmann's hand."

Fritz Number One reached into his own tunic pocket and removed the Russian belt buckle that he had tried to trade to Tommy days earlier.

Tommy nodded. He took the buckle, turned, and dragged Visser's body onto his shoulder. He fought forward, only to have Fritz Number One hold out his hand. The ferret stared at Visser's dead eyes.

"Gestapo!" he muttered. Then he spat once into the murdered man's face.

"Now, go, and be quick!"

Tommy battled through the trees. The smell was nearly overwhelming. He could just make out a small opening, almost a glade, perhaps two dozen yards from the makeshift barbed wire and sharpened stakes of the Russian work encampment.

There was nothing of permanence in the Russian area; after all, the men it was designed to hold were not expected to survive the war, and there was no Red Cross organization in Geneva ostensibly monitoring their conditions.

To his right, he heard a dog bark. A pair of voices tripped the air around him.

He thought: This is as far as I dare.

With a great shrug, he tossed Visser's body to the earth. It thudded, then lay still. He bent over, thrust the Russian belt buckle into the German's dead fingers, then stepped back and wondered for a moment if he had truly hated Visser enough to kill him, and then understood that that wasn't really what counted. What counted was that Visser was dead and he was still clinging precariously to life. Then, without another look at the dead man's face, he turned, and moving as quietly, yet as swiftly, as he could, returned to the spot where Fritz Number One remained.

The German nodded when he arrived.

"You may have a chance, now, Mr. Hart," he said.

"But still, we must hurry."

The return through the forest was faster, but Tommy thought he was closing in on delirium. A breeze sliding through the treetops whispered at him, almost mocking his exhaustion. Shadows were lengthening around him, like dozens of searchlights trying to seize hold of his face, expose him. Kill him. His hand screamed obscenities of hurt, trying to blind him with pain.

It was the moment of the morning when dawn seems to decide to insist on taking hold of the day. Black fades to gray, and the first streaks of blue were soaring through the sky, chasing away all the stars that had been so comforting to him earlier. From a few feet distant. Tommy could easily make out the black hole of the tunnel exit.

Fritz Number One stopped, hiding behind a tree. He pointed at the tunnel. He took Tommy by the arm.

"Mr. Hart," he whispered sharply, "Hauptmann Visser would have had me shot when he learned that it was I who traded the weapon that killed

Trader Vic. The weapon that you returned to me. I was in your debt, but now, tonight, that debt is paid. Understand?"

Tommy nodded.

"Now we are, how you say, equal?" the ferret added.

"Even Steven," Tommy replied.

The German looked slightly surprised.

"Who is Steven?"

"It's another figure of speech, Fritz. When things are all equal, we say they're "Even Steven'…" Tommy smiled, thinking that he had finally gone completely crazy with exhaustion, for now he was giving an English lesson.

The ferret grinned.

"Even Steven. I will remember this, too. There is much this night to remember."

He pointed at the hole.

"Now, Mr. Hart, I will count to sixty, and then I will blow the alarm."

Tommy nodded. He pushed himself up and raced to the hole. He did not look back, but instead, almost threw himself back into the darkness, his feet finding the rungs of the homemade ladder, and climbing down into the pit. He fell to the dirt at the bottom, the pain in his hand screaming insults at him. Without thinking of all the terrors he remembered from childhood, or any of the terrors that night had held.

Tommy thrust himself down the tunnel. There were no lights, not even a stray candle left behind to guide him. It was all a great and infinite blackness, mocking the dawn that was lighting the world beyond his reach.

Tommy crawled back to prison, alone, exhausted, blind, and deeply hurt, chased by the faraway sound of Fritz Number One's whistle shattering the orderly world above him.