Hart’s War

Chapter Twenty

It was near chaos in Hut 107.

The would-be escapees gathered in the central corridor were frantically changing out of their re tailored suits, back into their frayed and worn uniforms. Many men had collected extra rations for the escape, food to eat while on the lam, and they were now stuffing their mouths with chocolate or processed meat, fearful that any second the Germans were going to arrive and confiscate everything they'd hoarded so diligently over the past weeks. The support personnel were seizing the clothing, forged documents, tickets, passports, work orders, anything the kriegies had constructed to give false legitimacy to their anticipated existence beyond the wire, and stuffing these into hollowed-out books, or behind walls in concealed hiding spots. The men who'd been part of the bucket brigade of dirt dropped down from the hole in the ceiling, furiously wiping sweat and grime from their faces while one flier carefully fixed the access panel back in place on the off chance that the Germans would not discover it. An officer stood by the front door of the hut, peering through a crack in the wood, shuffling men out of the hut singly and in pairs, as long as the coast stayed clear.

There had been twenty-nine men stretched out in the tunnel when Tommy had given the word of warning to Number Nineteen. The alarm moved more rapidly than the men, passed back in a series of shouts, just as the message about Scott's innocence had been. But as the warning streamed back, the men in the tunnel had fought to start their own retreat, which was far more difficult in the cramped and dark quarters. The men had moved desperately, almost frantically, some crawling backward, some struggling to get turned around. Even with the urgency passed back, it still took some time for each man to retrace his steps, filled with disappointment, some fear, plenty of anxiety, and a furiousness at the harshness of life that had stolen this chance from them.

Curses resounded in the tight spaces, obscenities rebounding off the walls.

When the men first started to emerge from the tunnel, Lincoln Scott had been poised near the edge of the entrance, adjacent to the privy. Major

Clark was giving sharp orders a few feet away, trying to keep discipline among the frenzied men.

Scott had turned and absorbed the disintegration of the scene around him. He reached down and helped to lift Number Forty-seven from the entrance.

"Where's Hart?" Scott demanded.

"Did you see Tommy?" The flier shook his head.

"He must still be up at the front," the man replied.

Scott helped push the kriegie back toward the corridor, where the man began to tear at his escape clothes. Scott looked down into the pit of the tunnel. The candlelight seemed to throw scars across the faces of the disappointed men as they struggled to crawl from the tunnel entrance. He reached down and grasped Number Forty-six's hand, and with an immense jerk, lifted the next in line to the surface, asking the same question: "Did you see Hart? Did you hear him? Is he okay?"

But Number Forty-six shook his head.

"It's a damn mess in there, Scott. You can't see a damn thing. I don't know where Hart is."

Scott nodded. He guided the flier out of the privy toward the corridor, then reached down and seized the black cable leading into the hole.

"What are you doing, Scott?" Major Clark demanded.

"Helping," Scott replied. He twisted about, almost like a mountaineer preparing to rappel down a cliff, and without saying another word to the major, lowered himself down to the anteroom. He could sense a fierce tautness in the cheap air of the tunnel, almost like entering a medical ward where disease lingers in the corners and no one has ever opened a window to bring in fresh air. In the rush to retreat, the bellows had been abandoned, kicked to the side of the space by one of the first kriegies to emerge from the tunnel. Scott saw that Number Forty-five was struggling with a suitcase, and he reached into the gray semidarkness and tore it from the grateful man's hands.

"Jesus," the kriegie whispered.

"That damn thing almost brought the roof down on my head.

Thanks." The man leaned up against the wall of the anteroom.

"There's no air," he whispered.

"No damn air up there at all. I hope nobody passes out."

Scott helped to steady the gasping man against the side of the pit, and put the access cable in his hands. The kriegie nodded thanks and started to pull himself up, hand over hand.

As soon as he'd managed to lift himself over Scott's head, the black flier turned and grabbed the bellows.

He set it upright, and then plunked himself down, straddling it as had the captain from New York earlier that long night. With a strength born of urgency, he started to pump away furiously, sending blasts of air down the tunnel.

Nearly a full minute passed before the next kriegie slid through the tunnel entrance. This flier seemed exhausted by the tension of the failed escape. He coughed and tore at the air in the anteroom gratefully with wheezing breath and pointed at the bellows.

"Good," he whispered dryly.

"You can't breathe up there. Not at all."

"Where's Hart?" Scott demanded, between grunts. His face glistened with the sweat of exertion.

The man shook his head.

"I don't know. Coming, maybe? I don't know. You can't see. Can barely breathe. There's goddamn sand and dirt everywhere and all you can hear are the other guys yelling to back up, get out, get out, get out. That and you can hear the damn boards in the roof creaking and snapping. I hope the whole thing doesn't come caving in. Are the Krauts here yet?"

Scott gritted his teeth. He shook his head.

"Not yet. You've got a chance to get out, quick."

Number Forty-five nodded. He sighed, gathering strength.

Then he, too, struggled up the cable, reaching toward the hands at the privy entrance that were extended to him.

Below, Scott continued to pump air with deadly speed. The bellows creaked and whooshed, and the black flier grunted hard at the effort.

Slowly, one after another, the men crawled out of the tunnel. All were filthy, all were scared, all were relieved to be able to see the surface. One man said, "That's what dying must be like." Another said, "It's like a damn grave in there."

Every kriegie filled his lungs with air, and more than one took one look at Scott behind the bellows and whispered grateful thanks.

Time seemed to stretch around them dangerously, tugging at each man like the undertow on the beach, threatening to pull them into the shifting currents of deep waters. The tunnel itself, Scott thought, must be a little like drowning. Then he shoved this thought away, and demanded of the next man the only question that seemed to matter to him any longer, "Have you seen Hart? Where's Hart?"

No one could answer.

Fenelli, who was Number Twenty-eight, pulled himself forward, landing in a heap by Scott's legs. He gestured at the bellows.

"Damn good thing you started to do that," he hissed.

"Otherwise we'da had unconscious men stuck all over the damn tunnel.

It's almost toxic in there."

"Where's Hart?" Scott demanded for the hundredth time.

Fenelli shook his head.

"He was at the very front. Outside the wire. Giving the men the go ahead. I don't know where he is, now."

Scott was filled with the anger of impotence. He didn't know what the hell else he could do, except continue to shoot the lifesaving air down the tunnel.

"You better get out of here," he grunted.

"They'll help you up topside."

Fenelli started to rise, then slumped back down. He smiled.

"You know, I have a cousin in the navy. Goddamn submarines.

He wanted me to join up with him, but I told him only a fool would try to swim around under the damn ocean, holding their breath and looking for Japs. You'd never catch me doing anything so stupid, I told him.

Hah! Now, look at me. Twenty feet under the ground, still stuck in a damn prison. It sure is a long way from flying."

Scott nodded, still working hard. He managed a small smile.

"I think," Fenelli said, "I'll stick here with you for a couple of minutes."

The medic from Cleveland bent over, peering back into the pitch black tunnel. Perhaps sixty seconds passed, and then he reached forward, helping Number Twenty-seven through the last few feet. This was the captain from New York. He, too, dropped immediately to the floor, gasping like a fish out of water.

"Jesus," he said.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What a fucking mess. I had to dig through a pile of sand more than once. Things are getting pretty shaky in there."

"Where's Tommy?"

The man shook his head.

"There's still men coming down the tunnel behind me," he said. He seized a breath of air and struggled to his feet.

"Jesus. Feels good to stand up. Now, I'm out of here. Kee-rist!" He grabbed at the cable and with Fenelli steadying him, began to lift himself toward the safety of the surface.

It was right when Number Nineteen finally pushed through the tunnel entrance, that Major Clark leaned over the edge of the pit and shouted down, "That's it! They just sounded the damn alarm!"

The howl of a distant air-raid siren managed to penetrate even to the depth where they were gathered.

"Where's Hart?" Scott cried.

Number Nineteen shook his head.

"He shoulda been right behind me," he said.

"But I don't know where he went."

"What happened?" Fenelli demanded, kneeling down and staring into the tunnel darkness. He craned his head into the hole, trying to hear sounds of crawling.

"Come on, you men, hurry up!" Major Clark cried out from above.

"Let's move!"

Number Nineteen continued to shake his head.

"I don't know," he said.

"I was at the top of the ladder, waiting for the signal to run, you know, just like we'd been briefed, 'cept it was Hart on the other end of the rope, giving the signals, not the guy in front of you, like we expected. Anyways, I'm waiting and waiting and wondering what the hell, 'cause it's been more than a coupla minutes and we're supposed to be going every two, three minutes, and all of a sudden, all I can hear is the sound of two men fighting. And some kinda fight, too. No voices, not at first. Just grunts and hard breathing and punches being thrown and landing, too. Then there's silence and then like from nowheres, I can just hear some voices finally.

Can't hear what the hell anyone's saying, but that don't matter, 'cause next thing I know, there's Hart, right in the entrance, saying there's Krauts everywhere and to get my tail back up the tunnel fast, get everybody out, 'cause the alarm's gonna go off any second. So I drop back down and start back, but it takes damn near forever, 'cause guys are panicking, and fighting to get turned around and you can't barely breathe and there's dirt everywhere and you can't see a damn thing 'cause every candle is out. And then, here I am."

"Where's Hart?" Scott shouted.

Number Nineteen shrugged, still catching his breath.

"I can't tell you. I thought he'd be right behind me. But he ain't."

From above. Major Clark's voice bellowed down.

"Hurry up! Germans will be here any second! We have to close up!"

Scott turned his face up.

"Hart's not back!" he answered sharply.

Major Clark seemed to hesitate.

"He should be behind the last man!"

"He's not back!"

"We have to close up before they get here!"

"He's not back!" Lincoln Scott roared. Insistent.

"Well, where the hell is he?" the major demanded.

Tommy Hart could no longer separate the different pains that swept through his body. His mangled hand seemed to have distributed agony throughout every inch of his being. Every surge of blinding hurt was fueled by an exhaustion so total and utterly complete that he no longer really believed that he had the strength to pull himself down the entire length of the tunnel. He had traversed past the point where fear and terror held sway, deep into death's arena. That he was able to crawl forward almost surprised him; he had no real understanding where the energy came from. His muscles screamed threats of fatigue.

His imagination was a fevered blank fire of pain.

Still he dragged himself ahead.

It was darker than any night he'd known and he was terribly alone.

Sand rivulets leaked onto his head. Dust clogged his nostrils.

It seemed that there was no air left inside the narrow tunnel confines.

The only sound he could make out was the creak of support boards seemingly ready to give way. He pulled himself along, using a swimming motion, thrusting aside dirt that clogged his route, fighting every centimeter of the way.

He held out no real hope of being able to crawl the entire seventy-five yards. And he certainly no longer held any belief that he could cover the distance before the Germans descended upon Hut 107. In an odd way, though, the exhaustion, coupled with pain, and the immense effort it took to work his way ahead, all conspired to prevent him from being crippled by fear. It was almost as if all the other competing agonies that screamed inside his body didn't leave enough room for the most obvious and the most dangerous. And so defeat in this final fight didn't really dare enter his thinking.

Tommy grabbed at each inch of darkness and hauled himself forward.

He did not stop. Nor did he even hesitate, despite his exhaustion.

Even when he found his way partially blocked, and the narrow space made even smaller, he still snaked ahead, his lanky form slithering through the tightest of gaps. His head spun dizzily with exertion. Each breath of air he squeezed from the blackness around him seemed thinner, more fetid, filled with evil.

How long he had traveled, or how far, was unknown to him.

In a way, it seemed to him as if he'd always been in the tunnel.

That there never was an outside, never was a clear sky filled with fresh air and a great expanse of stars above. For a moment, he almost laughed, thinking that everything else must have been a dream; his home, his school, his love, the war, his friends, the camp, the wire all of it. None of it really ever took place. He had died, right there in the Mediterranean Sea, right alongside the captain from Texas, and everything else was merely some odd fantasy of the future that he was carrying with him into oblivion. He gritted his teeth and dragged himself another yard forward, thinking perhaps nothing was real, and this tunnel was hell, and that he had always been there and would always remain inside. There was no exit.

There was no air. There was no light. Not ever.

And into this delirium that overcame him, he heard a voice.

It seemed familiar. He thought at first it was Phillip Pryce's, and then no, it was his old captain calling for him. He struggled forward a little more, and broke into a smile, because he realized it had to be Lydia summoning him. It was home in Vermont, and it was summer, and she wanted him to sneak from his house into the warm midnight and give her just a single, deep kiss goodnight. He whispered a reply, just like any delighted lover reaching across a bed late at night in response to the merest of suggestive touches, a beckoning.

"I'm here," he said.

The voice called out again, and he stretched forward.

"I'm here," he said, louder. He did not have the energy to speak any harder, and what he managed was really barely approaching a normal tone. Again, he pulled himself ahead, half-expecting to see Lydia's hand reaching for his, her voice coaxing him toward her.

But what he heard instead was a terrible crack.

He did not even have time to panic when the roof above him shattered, and he was abruptly enveloped in a cascade of sandy dirt.

"I heard him!" Lincoln Scott shouted.

"He's there!"

"Jesus!" Fenelli cried out, recoiling from the tunnel entrance as a blast of dirt like an explosion billowed through.

"Goddamn it!"

From above in the privy, Major Clark yelled down: "What is it? Where's Hart?"

"He's there!" Scott answered.

"I heard him!"

"It's a goddamn cave-in!" Fenelli screamed.

"Where's Hart?" the major yelled again.

"We have to close up! The Krauts are rousting everyone out of the huts. If we don't close this up now, they'll find it!"

"I heard him," Scott screamed.

"He's trapped!"

Both Scott and Fenelli looked up at Major Clark in that second. The major seemed to sway, like heat vapors above a black macadam highway on a hot August afternoon, before he made a decision.

"Get the buckets moving," he shouted, turning toward the other men in the corridor.

"No one leaves until we dig Hart out!" He bent toward the tunnel anteroom.

"Coming down," he yelled out. And then he grabbed a makeshift pickax and spade and launched them down into the hole in the earth.

They thudded to the ground. But Lincoln Scott had already thrust himself into the tunnel, burrowing forward, where he was tearing at the loose sand and dirt frantically, digging like some crazed subterranean beast. Scott ripped at the cave-in, kicking the dirt back behind him, where Fenelli shoveled it to the back of the anteroom.

Nothing Lincoln Scott had ever done in his life seemed as urgent. No moment of confrontation, no anger, no rage, nothing equaled his assault on the intractable loose sand. It was like trying to do battle with a ghost, with a vapor. He had no idea whether he had to dig through one foot or a hundred.

But distance made utterly no difference to him. He snatched at the dirt, throwing handfuls behind him, and he began to whisper a mantra, "You're not dying! You're not dying…" as he dug toward the spot where he believed he'd heard the last faint sound of Tommy Hart's voice.

A few feet behind him, Fenelli cried out, "Keep going!

Keep going! He's only got a few minutes before he chokes!

Dig, goddamn it! Dig!"

Major Clark remained poised on his hands and knees at the edge of the tunnel entrance, next to the privy, peering down.

"Hurry," he cried.

"Goddamn it! Get a move on!"

At the end of the central corridor of Hut 107, the officer keeping watch at the front door abruptly turned and shouted back toward the privy: "Krauts! Coming this way!"

Major Clark stood up. He turned to the bucket brigade standing in the corridor.

"Everybody out!" he ordered.

"Out to the assembly yard! Now!"

Somebody asked, "What about the tunnel?"

And Clark replied, "Ah, screw it!" But then he held up his right hand, as if holding the men back from following his first order. The major slid a wry, tension-riddled smile across his face. He looked at the gathered kriegies.

"Okay," he said briskly.

"We need a few more minutes! Delay, delay, that's what we need. This is what I want: I want you men to disrupt the goddamn squad of Krauts heading this way. Like fourth and goal on the one-foot line! Just barrel-ass right into them, give 'em a real shot or two. Knock their butts flying! But keep on going, don't stop to throw more than one punch or two!

Keep going straight out into the yard and get into formation.

You understand what I'm saying? The old flying wedge, right through the enemy! But keep on going! Nobody gets himself shot. Nobody gets arrested! Just delay them as long as you can. Got it?"

Men up and down the corridor nodded. A few smiles broke out.

"Then get going! Give 'em hell!" Major Clark shouted.

"And when you hit that door, let's hear your voices."

Some of the men grinned. A couple pounded fists into palms, stretched their knuckles. Muscles tensed. The officer watching at the door suddenly shouted, "Get ready!"

Then: "Go!"

"Go you kriegies!" Clark bellowed.

With three dozen furious banshee like shouts of angry defiance, the phalanx of American airmen poured down the corridor shoulder to shoulder, bursting through the front door.

"Go! Go! Go!" Major Clark cried out.

He could not see the entire impact of the assault, but he could hear a sudden tangle of voices as the men slammed into the approaching squad of Germans, instantly creating a melee in the dust of the assembly yard. He could hear cries of alarm and the thud of bodies coming together savagely. It was. Major Clark thought, a very satisfying sound.

Then he turned and yelled down into the tunnel.

"Germans!

Any minute now! Keep digging!"

Lincoln Scott heard the major's words, but they no longer meant much to him. It seemed the threat created by the cave-in was far greater than the squad of goons racing toward Hut 107. He battled against the darkness that threatened to envelop him, as well. He savaged the dirt in front of him with a fury born of years of unremitting rage.

Tommy Hart was surprised. Death seemed to be coming softly for him.

He had managed to curl up slightly as the cave-in dropped onto his head, giving him the smallest of air pockets, one with only a few precious breaths of stale and used air. He had not thought that the world could be any darker than it had been, but it was now.

For the first time that night, perhaps even in days and weeks, he felt calm. Completely relaxed. All the tension in every fiber of his body seemed to suddenly dissipate, sliding swiftly away from him. He smiled inwardly, realizing that even the great pain in his hand, which had managed to en flame his entire body, seemed to be extinguished in that moment, as surely as if it had been doused with water. He thought this was an odd, but welcome, gift that death brought to his last moments.

Tommy took a deep breath. He almost laughed out loud. It was the most curious thing, he wondered to himself. One takes breathing so much for granted. Each pull of air, tens of thousands of times every day. It is only when one has only a few breaths left, he thought, that one realizes how special each was, how sweet and delicious they each tasted.

He took another breath and coughed. The cave-in had pinned his head and shoulders, but not his feet, and he pushed a little, almost involuntarily struggling forward, still fighting in those last seconds.

He thought of all the people in his life, seeing each as if they stood directly in front of him, and was saddened that he was about to slip into memory for each of them. He wondered if that was what death truly was, simply passing from flesh to memory.

And in this last reverie. Tommy was surprised again, this time by an unmistakable scratching noise. He was perplexed.

He thought he was completely alone, and he didn't understand how any ghost could make this particular earthly noise.

It was a noise born of life, not death, and this confused him and astonished him greatly.

But it was not a ghost that suddenly seized his torn hand.

In the utter blackness of the tunnel, he was suddenly aware that a space had opened up in front of him. In that hole before him he heard words, grunted, spoken between teeth gritted in the totality of exertion.

"Hart? Damn it! Talk to me! You are not going to die! I will not allow you to die!"

He could feel a great strength pulling him forward, sliding him through the dirt that he'd thought would form his grave.

In the same moment, all the hurts and agonies that had fled, returned, almost blinding him as pain surged once again through his body. But curiously, he welcomed this, for he thought that it meant that Death had decided to loosen its grip upon him.

He heard again, "You're not going to die, damn it! I will not permit it!"

And so he whispered back, hoarsely, "Thank you." It was all he had the energy to say.

Lincoln Scott put both hands on Tommy's shoulders, dug his powerful fingers deep into shirt and flesh, and with a great and violent grunt, tugged him from the cave-in. Then, without hesitation, Scott pulled Tommy ahead, dragging him down the tunnel. Tommy tried to help by crawling, but he could not. He had no more strength. Not even a child's. Instead, he let Scott swim him forward with jerks and twitches, hauling him toward the questionable safety of the tunnel entrance.

At the privy entrance. Major Clark stood, arms folded in front of his chest, blocking the approach of a German lieutenant and a squad of helmeted goons carrying rifles.

"Raus!" the German officer cried.

"Get out of the way!" he added in acceptable but accented English. The officer's uniform was torn at the knee and frayed at the shoulder, and a thin trickle of blood marred his jaw, dripping from the corner of his mouth. The men in the squad had many similar injuries and their uniforms were also ripped and dirtied from the mixup with the kriegies that had come charging out of Hut 107.

"Not a chance," Major Clark said briskly.

"Not until my men are out."

The German officer fumed.

"Out of the way! To escape is verboten "To escape is our duty!" Clark blustered.

"And anyway, no one's escaping, you damn idiot," Major Clark sneered, still not budging.

"Not anymore! They're coming back. And when they come out, you can have the damn tunnel. For what it's worth."

The German officer reached into his holster and removed his Luger semiautomatic pistol.

"Out of the way, Herr major, or I will shoot you here!"

To emphasize his words, he chambered a round in the weapon.

Clark shook his head.

"Not moving. Shoot me here, and you will face a hangman's noose, lieutenant. It's your own damn stupid choice."

The German officer hesitated, then raised his weapon to Clark's face.

Clark eyed him with unrelenting hatred.

"Halt!"

The officer hesitated, then turned. The men in the squad all came abruptly to attention as Commandant Von Reiter strode down the corridor. Von Reiter's face was flushed. His own fury was evident, as prominent as the red silk lining of his dress coat. He stamped his feet hard against the wooden floor.

"Major Clark," he demanded sharply.

"What is the meaning of this? You are to take your place in the formations immediately!"

Major Clark shook his head again.

"There are men down below. When they come up, I'll accompany them to the Appell" Von Reiter seemed to hesitate, only to have whatever his next command was to be interrupted by Fenelli's excited voice, rising from the tunnel pit entrance.

"He's got 'im! Goddamn it, major! Scott dug him loose! They're coming out!"

Clark turned to the medic.

"Is he okay?"

"Still alive!"

Then Fenelli turned and reached back into the tunnel, helping Lincoln

Scott pull Tommy Hart the final few feet. The two men tumbled into the anteroom, falling exhausted to the litter of dirt. Fenelli dropped down beside Tommy, cradling his head, while Lincoln Scott, breathing hard, tearing gasps of air from the tunnel shaft, slumped to the side.

Fenelli produced a canteen with water, which he dripped onto Tommy's face.

"Jesus, Hart," Fenelli whispered.

"You must be the luckiest son of a bitch I know."

Then he looked down at Tommy's mangled hand and gasped.

"Or maybe the unluckiest. Jesus, that's a mess. How the hell did that happen?"

"A dog bit me," Tommy answered weakly.

"Some dog," Fenelli said. Then he whispered another question.

"What the hell happened out there?"

Tommy shook his head and replied softly, "I got out. Not for long. But

I got out."

"Well," the medic from Cleveland replied, through his wide, dirt-smeared grin, "you made it farther than I did, and at least that's something."

He reached down, passed an arm under Tommy's shoulder, and helped Tommy rise to his feet. Scott grunted, and scrambled up as well. It took a minute or two for the two of them to lift Tommy through the pit, to the surface, where German hands seized him and angrily thrust him to the floor of the corridor.

Tommy had no idea what was next, only that he felt drunk with the heady taste of air. He did not think he had the strength to rise on his own, nor was he at all sure he could walk, if the Germans demanded it. All he could feel was immense pain and a similar store of gratitude, as if the two conflicting sensations were more than happy to share space deep within him.

He was aware that Lincoln Scott stood nearby, at Major Clark's side, as if standing guard. Fenelli, however, bent toward him again, lifting

Tommy's hand up.

"This is a mess," the medic said again. Fenelli turned toward

Commandant Von Reiter.

"He needs medical attention for these wounds immediately."

Von Reiter bent down, inspecting the hand. He staggered back slightly, as if shocked at the sight. The German seemed to hesitate, but then he reached forward and slowly and gingerly unwrapped the handkerchief from around the torn flesh. Von Reiter took the handkerchief and placed it in his tunic pocket, ignoring the deep wet crimson blood that stained the white silk. He frowned at the extent of Tommy's injury. He could see that the index finger was almost entirely severed and deep gouges and gashes marred the palm and the other fingers. Then he looked up and abruptly turned to the German lieutenant.

"A field dressing, lieutenant! Immediately."

The German officer saluted, and gestured toward one of the goons, still standing nearby at attention. The German soldier pulled a paper-covered pad of gauze impregnated with sulfa from a leather compartment on his campaign belt and handed it to Commandant Von Reiter, who, in turn, passed it to Fenelli.

"Do what you are able, lieutenant," Von Reiter said gruffly.

"This won't be adequate, commandant," Fenelli replied.

"He'll need real medicines and a real doctor."

Von Reiter shrugged.

"Bind it tightly," he said.

Then the German commandant rose stiffly and turned to Major Clark.

"These men," he said, gesturing toward Fenelli, Scott, and Hart.

"Cooler."

"Hart needs prompt medical attention, commandant," Major Clark objected.

But Von Reiter merely shook his head and said, "I can see that, major.

I am sorry. Cooler." This time he repeated the order to the German officer standing nearby.

"Cooler! Schnell!" he said loudly. And then, without another word, or even a glance toward the Americans or their tunnel, Von Reiter abruptly turned on his heel and marched quickly from the hut.

Tommy tried to stand, but fell back dizzily.

The German lieutenant prodded him with a boot.

"Raus! " he said.

"Don't worry, Tommy, I've got you," Lincoln Scott said, pushing the German to the side with a shoulder. He reached down and helped Tommy to his feet. Tommy rocked unsteadily.

"Can you walk?" Scott asked beneath his breath.

"I will damn well try," Tommy replied, gritting his teeth together.

"I'll help you," Scott said.

"Put your weight on me." He kept his arm under Tommy's shoulder, snaking around his back, holding him steady. The black airman grinned.

"You remember what I told you. Tommy?" he said quietly.

"No white boy's gonna die when a Tuskegee flier's watching over you."

They took a tentative step forward, then a second. Fenelli slid ahead of them and held open the front door to Hut 107.

Surrounded by helmeted, unsmiling German guards, watched by every man in the entire compound, Lincoln Scott slowly supported Tommy Hart across the width of the exercise yard. Without saying a word, not even when prodded by the occasional shove from a goon's rifle, the two men traveled arm in arm directly through the gathered formations of American airmen, who silently moved aside to let them pass.

They marched out of the barbed-wire enclosure, the front gate swinging shut behind them with a crash, moving steadily toward the cooler block.

It was only when they finally walked through the door to the punishment cells that they heard a great swelling sound of cheers suddenly rising up from the rows and rows of assembled men behind them. The cheers soared, filling the sunlit morning air, following them into the dank cement world of the cooler, penetrating the thick concrete building, tumbling through the open barred windows, resounding and echoing throughout the small space, overwhelming the sound of the doors locking behind them, making a wondrous music not unlike that of ancient Joshua's great horn when he stood defiant before the mighty walls of Jericho.