Hart’s War

Chapter Two

The arrival of First Lieutenant Lincoln Scott at Stalag Luft Thirteen galvanized the kriegies. For nearly a week, he replaced Freedom and the War as the primary topic of conversation.

Few of the men had had any inkling that black pilots were being trained by the U.S. Army Air Force at Tuskegee, Alabama, and fewer still were aware that they'd begun fighting over Europe late in 1943. Some of the later camp arrivals, B-17 pilots and crew mainly, told of flights of shining, metallic P-51 fighters diving through their formations in pursuit of desperate Messerschmidts, and how the 332nd fighter wing wore distinctive red and black chevrons painted on their tail rudders.

The men from these bombers had had the luxury of some experience in their acceptance of the men from the 332nd; as they pointed out in debate after debate, it really didn't make much difference to them who it was or what color they were, as long as the fighters drove off the attacking 109s, because being chopped apart by the twin twenty-millimeter cannons mounted in the stubby Messerschmidt's wings and dying in a flaming B-17 was an ugly, frightening business. But there weren't many of these crewmen in the camp, and there was still widespread disagreement among the kriegies as to whether any black man had the required intelligence, physical ability, and the necessary heart to fly warplanes.

Scott himself seemed unaware that his presence stirred loud and sometimes contentious arguments. On the evening he arrived in the camp, he had been assigned to the bunk in Hut 101 that had been occupied by the dead clarinet-playing tunneler. He had greeted the other men in the room in a perfunctory manner, stowed what few belongings he had with him beneath the bed, then crawled into his space and remained quiet for the remainder of the night.

He told no warrior's tales.

Nor did he volunteer information about himself. How he'd been shot down remained unknown, as did his hometown, his background, and his life. Over his first few days in the bag, a few kriegies made efforts to engage him in conversation, but Scott politely and firmly rebuffed each attempt. At mealtimes, he fashioned simple spreads from his allotted Red Cross parcels. He did not invite anyone to share with him, nor did he ask anyone to share from their parcels. What he received he used, alone. He did not join in camp conversations, nor did he sign up for classes, courses, or activities. On his second day at Stalag Luft Thirteen he obtained from the camp library a ripped and worn copy of Gibbons The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and from the YMCA he accepted a Bible, both of which he read silently, sitting outdoors in the sunshine, back against the hut, or on his bed, bent toward one of the windows, searching for the weak light that filtered past the grime-streaked glass and wooden shutters into the room.

He seemed, to the other kriegies, mysterious. They were surprised by Scott's stand-offishness Some found arrogance in his aloofness, which translated into a number of thinly veiled cracks. Others merely found his solitude unsettling.

All the men, even those like Tommy Hart who might have been seen as loners, relied on and needed each other, if only to reassure themselves that they weren't alone in the world of confinement that was Stalag Luft Thirteen. The camp created the oddest of psychological states: They were not criminals, but they were in prison. Without each other's support and constant reminders that they belonged to a different life, they would be adrift.

But outwardly, Lincoln Scott seemed immune to this.

By the end of his first week inside Stalag Luft Thirteen, when not wrapped up with Gibbons’ history or with the Bible, he had taken to spending his days walking the perimeter of the compound. One circuit after another, for hours. He would stride rapidly along the dusty trail, a foot inside the deadline, eyes riveted to the ground except for occasional pauses, where he would stop, turn, and stare out at the distant line of pine trees.

Tommy had watched him, and was reminded of a dog on a chain, always moving at the very limit of its territory.

He had been one of the men who made an effort in the first few days to enter into a conversation with Lieutenant Scott, but had had no more success than any other. In the midst of a mild afternoon, shortly before the order to start the evening count was to be given, he had approached the lieutenant as the black man made one of his tours of the edge of the camp.

"Hey, how you doing?" Hart had said.

"My name's Tommy Hart."

"Hello," Scott had replied. He did not offer his hand, nor did he identify himself.

"You settled in okay?"

Scott had shrugged.

"Seen worse," he muttered.

"When new guys come in it's sort of like having the daily paper delivered to the house, only a couple of days late.

You've got all the latest, and even if it's out of date, it's still better than what we've got, which' is rumor and official crap over the illegal radios. What's really happening? How's the war going? Any word on the invasion?"

"We're winning," Scott had answered.

"And no. Lots of men sitting in England. Waiting, same as you."

"Well, not exactly the same as us," Tommy said, grinning, and gesturing toward a machine-gun crew in the guard tower.

"No, that's true," Scott said. The lieutenant had kept walking, not looking up.

"Well, you must know something," Hart asked.

"No," Scott had replied.

"I don't."

"Well," Tommy had persisted, "suppose I walk along with you and you tell me everything you don't know."

This request brought the smallest of smiles to the black man's lips, just the slightest turn upward, and he blew out some wind, as if concealing a laugh. Then, almost as quickly as that moment was there between them, it dissipated.

"I really prefer to walk alone," Scott had said briskly.

"Thanks for asking, though."

Then he'd continued his trek, as Tommy stopped and watched him stride on.

The following morning was Friday, and after the morning Appell Tommy went back to his bunk. From a small wooden box beneath the bed, he took several fresh packages of Lucky Strikes from a carton that had been delivered in his latest Red Cross parcel. He also grabbed a small metal container marked earl grey tea, and the uneaten majority of a large chocolate bar. In his jacket pocket, he secreted a small can of condensed milk. Then he collected several sheets of brown scrap paper, which he'd used to scrawl notes upon in cramped, tight handwriting.

These he stuffed between the pages of a worn text on forensic evidence.

He walked outside Hut 101, searching for one of the three Fritzes. The morning was warm, and sunlight gave the yellow-gray dirt of the compound a glow.

Instead he spotted Vincent Bedford pacing along, with a determined look on his face. The southerner paused, his face turning rapidly into a look of anticipation, and quickly approached Tommy.

"I'll sweeten the deal. Hart," he said.

"You're just a hard nut to crack. What'll it take to get that watch?"

"You haven't got what it will take. Sentimental value."

The Mississippian snorted.

"Sentiment? Girl back home?

What makes you think you'll get back there in one piece?

And what makes y'all think she'll be waiting for you once you do?"

"I don't know. Hope? Trust?" Tommy replied, with a small laugh.

"Those things don't amount to much in this world of ours, Yankee. What counts is what you got right now. In your hand.

That y'all can use right away. Maybe ain't gonna be no tomorrow.

Not for you, maybe not for me, maybe not for any of us."

"You're a cynic, Vic." The southerner grinned "Well, maybe so, maybe so. Nobody never called me that before. But I won't deny it."

They were walking slowly between two of the huts, and they emerged onto the edge of the exercise area. A softball game was just starting up, but beyond the outfield, both men caught sight of the solitary figure of Lincoln Scott, marching along the edge of the perimeter.

"Sumbitch," Bedford muttered.

"Today I got to do something about this situation."

"What situation?" Tommy asked.

"The nigger situation," Bedford replied, turning and staring at Hart as if he were unbelievably stupid for not seeing the obvious.

"The boy's using up a bunk in my room and that ain't right."

"What's not right about it?"

Bedford didn't answer directly.

"I suppose I got to go tell old man MacNamara, and then he'll switch the nigger into another room. Boy ought to be housed in some place by his self so's to keep him separate from the rest of us."

Tommy shook his head.

"Seems he's doing that pretty effectively by himself without any help from you," he said.

Trader Vic shrugged.

"Ain't right. And anyway, what's a Yankee like you know about niggers?

Nothing. Absolutely goddamn nothing." Bedford drew out each vowel sound, giving each word an elongated importance.

"Why, I'll bet, Hart, that you ain't hardly ever even seen one before, much less lived with 'em, the way we do down South…"

Tommy didn't reply to this, because there was some truth in what Bedford said.

"And what we come to know about 'em ain't good," Trader Vic continued.

"They lie. Why, they lie and cheat all the damn time. They're thieves, every one of 'em, as well. Good many of 'em are rapists and criminals, too. Not all, mind you.

But a good many. Now, I'm not saying that they maybe might not make good soldiers. Why, that's a possibility, because they don't see things exactly the way white folks do, and they can probably be educated properly in how to kill, and do a right good job at it, I suspect, same as like chopping wood or fixing a machine, though flying a Mustang, I can't see that.

They just ain't the same as you and me. Hart. Hell, you can see that just by watching that boy walk his way around the deadline. And I think it'd be a whole lot better if old man MacNamara figured that out before some trouble happens, because I know niggers, and there's always trouble wherever they are. Believe it."

"What sort of trouble, Vic? Hell, we're all stuck here, just the same."

Vincent Bedford burst out into a small laugh, shaking his head vigorously back and forth.

"The one thing may be true. Hart, that we're all stuck here, though that remains to be seen, don't it? And the other, why, it absolutely ain't the same. No sir. Not the same at all."

Vincent Bedford pointed at the wire.

"The wire be the same. But everybody here sees it different.

You see it one way, I see it another, and the old man sees it a third.

Likely even our boy walking along out there, why he's probably started seeing it in his own way, too. That's the wonder of life. Hart, which

I'd even expect an overeducated and tight-ass Yankee like yourself to figure out.

Ain't nothing ever the same for two men in this world. Not ever.

Except maybe death."

Tommy thought that of all the things he'd heard Bedford say, this last observation was probably as close to the truth as he ever came.

Before he could reply, Bedford clapped him on the shoulder.

"Why hell. Hart, you're probably thinking that I'm prejudiced, but it ain't so. I ain't no stars and bars-waving, tobacco-chewing, white-hooded, night-riding Klansman No sir. In fact, I have always treated every nigger good. Treat 'em like men. That's my way. But I know niggers, and I know they cause trouble, and that's what we'll have here."

The southerner turned and eyed Tommy.

"Trust me," Trader Vic continued with a small laugh.

"Trouble'll be coming. I can tell. Best to keep folks separated."

He smiled again.

Tommy kept silent.

Bedford brayed.

"Hell, Hart, you know, I'll bet even money that maybe my great-granddaddy took a shot at one of your ancestors once or twice, back in the great war of independence, except that ain't what your damn fool Yankee textbooks call it now, is it? Good thing for you that the

Bedfords never were much in the way of marksmen."

Tommy smiled.

"The Hart family traditionally was always good at ducking," he said.

Bedford burst out laughing.

"Well," he said, "that's a valuable ability. Tommy. Keep that family tree alive for centuries to come."

Still smiling, he stepped away.

"Well, I'm gonna go do my talking with the colonel. You change your mind, come to your senses and wanna make that trade, you know I am definitely open for business twenty-four hours a day, and Sundays, too, because right now I think the good Lord is paying more attention elsewhere, and not watching out for this particular flock of sheep too damn much."

From the playing field, several kriegies started yelling in their direction and waving at Vincent Bedford. One of them waved a bat and ball above his head.

"Well," the Mississippian said, "I guess I'll have to put off talking with the big boss man until this afternoon, 'cause these boys need someone to show them how the great game of baseball is properly played.

Be seem' ya. Hart. You work on changing your mind…"

Tommy watched as Trader Vic trotted toward the field.

From the opposite direction, he heard a distinctly American voice shout out, "Kein drinkwasser!" in half-fractured German. Then he heard the same call answered from a hut a few yards away. The German phrase stood for "not drinking water" and was what the Krauts printed on the steel barrels used for hauling sewage. It was also the standard kriegie early warning for the men in the huts to know that a ferret was walking through the camp in their direction and gave any men involved in escape activities time to hide their work, whether it was digging or forging documents. The ferrets were rarely pleased to be called sewage.

Tommy Hart hurried toward the sound of the voices.

He hoped it was Fritz Number One who'd been spotted lurking around the compound, because he was generally the easiest ferret to bribe. He did not dwell long on what Bedford had said.

It took a half-dozen cigarettes to persuade Fritz Number One to accompany him to the northern compound. The two men marched through the camp gate into the space that separated the two compounds. On one side there was a barracks for guards, and then the commandant's offices. Behind that was a brick-and-mortar coldwater shower block.

Two guards with slung rifles were standing outside, smoking.

From inside the showers. Tommy Hart could hear voices raised in song.

The British were great chorale lovers. Their songs were invariably wildly ribald, dramatically obscene, or fantastically offensive.

He slowed his pace and listened. The men were singing "Cats on the

Roof " and he swiftly recognized the refrain.

"Oh, cats on the roof, cats on the tiles… "Cats with the syphilis and cats with the piles…"

Fritz Number One had also slowed.

"Do the British know any normal songs?" he asked quietly.

"I don't think so," Tommy replied.

The voices bursting from the shower room launched into a song called

"Fuck All of It."

"The commandant," Fritz Number One said softly, "I do not think he enjoys the British singing. He no longer permits his wife and their little daughters to come visit him in his office when the British officers are going to the showers."

"War is hell," Tommy said.

Fritz Number One quickly raised his hand to cover his mouth, as if blocking a cough, but in reality to stifle a laugh.

"We must all do our duty," he said with a hidden cackle, "however we see it."

The two men walked past a gray cinder-block building.

This was the cooler-the punishment barracks-with a dozen windowless and bare cement cells hidden inside.

"Empty now," Fritz Number One said.

They approached the gate to the British compound.

"Three hours. Lieutenant Hart. This is adequate?"

"Three hours. Meet you in the front."

The ferret swung his arm toward a guard, gesturing for the man to push the gate open. Tommy could see Flying Officer Hugh Renaday waiting just beyond the gate and he hurried forward to meet his friend.

"How's the wing commander?" Tommy asked, as the two men walked swiftly through the British compound.

"Phillip? Well, physically, he seems more run down than ever. He can't seem to shake this cold or whatever the bloody hell it is, and the last few nights he's been coughing, a wet, nasty cough, all night long. But in the morning he shrugs it all off and he won't let me take him to the surgeon's. Stubborn old bastard. If he dies here, it'll serve him right."

Renaday spoke with a brusque, flat Canadian accent, words that were as dry and windswept as the vast prairie regions that he called home, but contradictorily tinged with the frequent Anglicism that reflected his years in the R.A.F. The flying officer walked with a lengthy, impatient stride, as if he found the travel between locations to be inconvenient, that what was important to him was where one came from and where one ended up and the distance between really just an irritation. He was wide-shouldered and thickset, muscled even though the camp had stripped pounds from his frame.

He wore his hair longer than most of the men in the camp, as if daring lice and fleas to infest him. None had been so foolhardy as of yet.

"Anyway," Renaday continued, as they turned a corner, passing two British officers diligently raking soil in a small garden, "he's damn glad today's Friday, and that you're visiting.

Can't tell you how much he looks forward to these sessions.

As if by using his brain he defeats how lousy the rest of him feels."

Renaday shook his head and added: "Other men like to talk of home, but Phillip likes to analyze these cases. I think it reminds him of what he was once and what he's likely to be when he gets back to jolly old England. He ought to be sitting in front of a warm fireplace, lecturing a few acolytes in the intricacies of some obscure legal point, wearing silk slippers and a green velvet smoking jacket, sipping from a cup of the finest. Every time I look at the old bastard, I can't imagine what the hell he was thinking when he climbed on board that damnable Blenheim."

Tommy smiled.

"Probably thinking the same thing we all thought."

"And what, my learned American friend, might that have been?"

"That despite the large and near constant volume of incredibly persuasive evidence to the contrary, nothing much bad was going to happen to us."

Renaday burst into a deep, resonant laugh that made some of the gardening officers pick up their heads and pay a brief spot of attention before returning to their well-raked plots of yellow-brown earth.

"God's bitter truth there. Yank."

He shook his head, still smiling, then gestured.

"There's Phillip now."

Wing Commander Phillip Pryce was sitting on the steps to a hut, a book in one hand. He wore a threadbare olive blanket draped across his shoulders despite the warmth, and had his cap pushed back on his head.

His eyeglasses were dropped down on his nose, like a caricature of a teacher, and he chewed on the end of a pencil. He waved like a child at a parade when he spotted the two men striding in his direction.

"Ah, Thomas, Thomas, delighted as always. Have you come prepared?"

"Always prepared. Your Honor," Tommy Hart replied.

"Still smarting you know," Pryce continued, "from that hiding you gave Hugh and me over the elusive Jack and his unfortunate crimes. But now we're ready to do battle with one of your more sensational cases, what.

I would think it was our turn, what do you say, with the bats?"

"At bat," Renaday said, as Hart and Pryce warmly shook hands. Tommy thought the wing commander's firm handshake was perhaps a little less so than usual.

"You say at bat, Phillip. Not with the bats. The umpire says "Batter up!" and so on and that's what gets it all started."

"Incomprehensible sport, Hugh. Not unlike your foolish but beloved hockey in that regard. Racing hell-bent around on the ice in the freezing cold, trying to whack some defenseless rubber disk into a net and at the same time avoid being clubbed nearly to death by your opponents."

"Grace and beauty, Phillip. Strength and perseverance."

"Ahh, British qualities."

The men laughed together.

"Let's sit outside," Pryce said. He had a soft, generous voice, filled with reflection and enthusiasm.

"The sun feels fine. And, after all, it's not something we English are all that accustomed to seeing, so, even here, amid all the horrors of war, we should take advantage of Mother Nature's temporary beneficence. Again the men smiled.

"Gifts from the ex-colonies, Phillip," Tommy said.

"A little of our bounty, just a small repayment for your managing to send every bungling idiot general across the seas in seventy-six, to be taken advantage of by our New World brilliance."

"I shall ignore that most unfortunate, childish, and mistaken interpretation of a decidedly minor moment in the illustrious history of our great empire. What have you brought us?"

"Cigarettes. American, minus the half-dozen it took to bribe Fritz

Number One…"

"His price, I think, has oddly gone up," Pryce muttered.

"Ah, American tobacco! Virginia's best, I'll warrant. Excellent."

"Some chocolate…"

"Delightful. From the famous Hershey's of Pennsylvania…"

"And this…" Tommy Hart handed the older man the tin of Earl Grey tea. He had had to trade with a fighter pilot, who chain-smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, to get it, but he thought the price cheap when he saw the older man's face crease into a wide grin. Pryce immediately burst into song.

"Hallelujah! In excelsis gloria! And us doomed to refusing over and over that poor tired tin of foul alleged darjeeling.

Hugh, Hugh, treasures from the colonies! Riches beyond our wildest imagination. The makings of a proper brew up! A sweet to cut the appetite, a real, honest-to-goodness cup of tea to be followed by a leisurely smoke! Thomas, we are in your debt!"

"It's the parcels," Tommy replied.

"Ours are so much better than yours."

"True, alas. Not that we prisoners don't appreciate the sacrifices being made by our beleaguered countrymen, but " "The damn U.S. parcels are far better," Hugh Renaday interrupted.

"The British parcels are simply pathetic. Foul tins of kippers and ersatz jams. Something they call coffee, but which clearly isn't.

Awful. Canadian parcels aren't all that bad, they're just a little shy of the sorts of stuff Phillip is looking for."

"Too much tinned meat. Not enough tea," Pryce said with mock sadness.

"Tinned meat that looks like it was carved from the backside of Hugh's old horse."

"Probably was."

The men laughed again, and Hugh Renaday took the chocolate and tin of tea inside the hut to brew up cups for the three men. In the interim,

Pryce lit a cigarette, leaned back, and, closing his eyes, let the smoke slowly slide from his nostrils.

"Phillip, how are you feeling?" Tommy asked.

"Nasty as always, dear boy," Pryce replied without opening his eyes.

"I take some satisfaction in the consistency of my physical state.

Always bugger-all bad."

He blinked his eyes open, and leaned forward.

"But at least this still works fine." He tapped his forehead.

"Have you prepared a defense for your accused carpenter?"

Tommy nodded.

"I have indeed."

The older man smiled again.

"You have some ideas? Fresh ideas, eh?"

"Argue for a change of venue. Vociferously. Then plan on bringing in some fancy-Dan wood experts or scientists to tear away at Hugh's man, the so-called forensic timber expert.

Why, I suspect there's really no such thing, and I damn well ought to be able to find some Harvard or Yale type to testify that way! Because it's the ladder testimony that kills us. I can explain away the gold notes, explain away the other stuff. But the man testifying that the ladder could only have been made from the wood in Hauptmann's garage so much of the case rests on that testimony."

Pryce moved his head slowly up and down.

"Continue.

There is much truth to what you say."

"You see, the wooden ladder that's what forces me to put Hauptmann on the stand in his own defense. And when he gets up there, in front of all the cameras and newsmen in the midst of that circus…"

"Deplorable, I agree…"

"And he talks in that accent… and everyone hates him.

From the moment he opens his mouth. I believe they hated him when he was accused, of course. But when that foreign accent tumbles out…"

"The case turns so much on that hatred, does it not, Thomas?"

"Yes. An immigrant. A rigid, brutish man. Much to instantly dislike.

Put him in front of that jury and it's like taunting them to convict him."

"A solitary rodent of a man. A difficult client."

"Yes. But I must find a way to turn his weaknesses into strengths."

"Not quite so easy."

"But crucial."

"Ah, you are astute. And what of the famed aviator's odd identification? When he claims to recognize Hauptmann's voice as the voice he heard in the darkened cemetery?"

"Well, his testimony is preposterous on its face, Phillip.

That he could recognize a man's half-dozen, no more, words years later

… I think I would have prepared a surprise for Colonel Lindbergh on cross-examination."

"A surprise? How so?"

"I would plant three or four men with heavy accents in different locations in the courtroom. And in quick succession have each rise, and say "Leave the money and go! "just as he claimed Hauptmann did.

The state will object, of course, and the judge will find it contemptuous…"

Pryce was grinning.

"Ahh, but a little theater, no? Playing a bit to that huge crowd of horrid reporters. Underscoring a lie.

I can see it quite clearly. Courtroom packed, all eyes on Thomas Hart, hypnotized as he wheels and produces these other men, and turns to the famous aviator and says, "Are you sure it was not him? Or him? Or him?" and the judge's gavel ringing, and men of the press racing for the telephones. Creating a little circus of your own to counteract the circus arrayed against you, correct?"

"Precisely."

"Ahh, Thomas, you have the makings of a fine lawyer. Or perhaps the devil's own assistant if we all die here and end up in Hell. But remember caution. To many of the folk in that audience, in that jury, and the judge, as well, Lindbergh was a saint. A hero. A perfect knight. One must use great caution when showing a man with the glow of public perfection about him to be a liar. Keep that in mind! Here comes Hugh with the tea. Speaking of perfection!"

The older man reached for the cup of steaming liquid, and held it close to his nose, drinking in the vapors.

"Now," he said, slowly, "if only we had…"

Tommy reached into his jacket pocket for the can of condensed milk, simultaneously finishing the older man's sentence. "… some fresh milk?"

Phillip Pryce laughed.

"Thomas, my son, you will go far in life."

He poured a generous dollop into his white ceramic cup, then took a long pull at the lip, his pleasure obvious. Then he looked across the cup at-Renaday.

"Now that I've been properly bribed by the Yank, Hugh, I hope you've prepared as well?"

Renaday poured a more conservative touch of milk into his own tea and nodded vigorously.

"Of course, Phillip. Although I have been placed at a significant disadvantage by the unseemly bribery by our friend from the States, I have. The evidence I have at hand is overwhelming. The ransom money-those distinctive gold certificates-found hidden in Hauptmann's home. The ladder-which I can prove was carved from the boards of his own garage. His lack of a credible alibi-" "And lack of confession,"

Tommy Hart briskly interrupted.

"Even after he's been subjected to hours and hours of your harshest questioning."

"That confession. Or lack thereof," Pryce interjected, "that is most troubling, Hugh, is it not? It is most surprising, also, that it could not be obtained. You would think the man would crumble under the efforts of the state police. You would think, too, that he would be filled with remorse at taking the poor child's life. You would imagine that these pressures, from within and without, would be well-nigh insurmountable, especially to a rough man of limited education. And that, in due time, this confession, which would answer so much and free us from so many dogged questions, would arrive.

But instead, this dull workingman steadfastly maintains his innocence…"

The Canadian nodded.

"It surprises me that they could not break him. I damn well could have, and without resorting to what you folks in the lower forty-eight call the third degree.

Now, I do concede a confession would be helpful, perhaps even important, but…"

Hugh Renaday paused, then smiled at Tommy.

"But I don't need it. Not really. The man comes to the courtroom draped in guilt. Cloaked in guilt. Fully dressed out and equipped with guilt. Pregnant with guilt…" Renaday puffed out his stomach and patted it with a thump. The three men laughed at the image.

"There's little for me to do, save help the hangman tie his noose."

"Actually, Hugh "Tommy said quietly, "in New Jersey they favored the electric chair."

"Well," the flying officer said, as he broke off a square of chocolate and popped it into his mouth before handing the bar to Pryce, "then they damn well ought to have it warmed up and ready to fly."

"Probably have difficulty finding volunteers for that job, Hugh," Pryce burst out.

"Even with a war on."

The wing commander's laugh disintegrated into a series of wracking coughs, which settled when he took a long sip of tea, once again bringing a wide grin to his wrinkled face.

The argument went well. Tommy thought, as he and Fritz Number One retraced their steps through the zone between the two compounds. He had made some points, conceded some, battled hard on every procedural question, losing most, but not without a fight. On the whole, he was pleased.

Phillip Pryce had decided to put off on issuing any ruling and allow further discussion the following week, much to Hugh

Renaday's theatrical dismay and mock-bitter claims that Tommy's unfair bribery was clouding their friend's usually perceptive vision. This was a complaint none of the three men took particularly seriously.

After walking side by side for a moment or two. Tommy noticed that the ferret seemed oddly quiet. Fritz Number One enjoyed using his language skills, often privately suggesting that after the war he would be able to turn them to good use and financial reward. Of course, it was difficult to tell whether Fritz Number One meant after they had won the war, or lost it. It was always difficult. Tommy thought, to tell precisely how fanatic most of the ordinary Germans were. The occasional Gestapo man who visited the camp especially in the wake of failed escape attempts wore his politics openly. A ferret such as

Fritz Number One or the commandant, for that matter was a much harder read.

He turned to the German. Fritz Number One was tall, as he was, and thin, like a kriegie. The main difference was that his skin had a healthier glow to it, not like the sallow, pasty appearance all the prisoners gained within their first few weeks inside Stalag Luft

Thirteen.

"What's the matter, Fritz? Cat got your tongue?"

The ferret looked up quizzically.

"Cat? What does this mean?"

"It means: Why are you so silent?"

Fritz Number One nodded.

"Cat holding your tongue. This is clever. I will remember."

"So? What's the problem?"

The ferret frowned and shrugged.

"Russians. Today," he said softly.

"They are clearing space for another camp for more Allied prisoners. We take the Russians and use them for the labor. They live in tents barely a mile away. Other side of the woods."

"And?"

Fritz Number One lowered his voice, swiveling his head around quickly to make certain no one could overhear him.

"We work the Russians to their deaths, lieutenant. There are no Red Cross parcels with tinned beef and cigarettes for them. Just work.

Very hard. They die by the dozens. By the hundreds. I worry that if the Red Army ever finds out how we have treated these prisoners, their revenge will be harsh."

"You're worried that when the Russians show up…"

"They will not show charity."

Tommy nodded, thinking: Serves you right.

But before he could say anything, Fritz Number One held out his hand, stopping him. They were perhaps thirty yards from the gate to the southern compound, but Fritz Number One was unwilling to cross the short distance. To his left, Tommy suddenly saw why: A long, sinewy column of men was marching toward them, and he could see that they would pass directly in front of the entrance to the American compound.

He paused, watching with a mingling of curiosity and despair, thinking:

These men are no different. They have lives and homes and families and hopes. But they are dead men, marching past.

The German soldiers guarding the column wore battle dress. Their machine pistols swept over the shuffling line of men. Occasionally one would shout "Schnell! Schnell!" urging them to hurry, but the Russians moved at their own deliberate and painstaking pace. Marching with utter exhaustion.

Tommy could see sickness and hurt behind their thick beards, in their recessed, haunted eyes. Their heads were bent, each step forward seemingly agonizing. Occasionally he could see one man, or two, gazing at the German guards, muttering in their own tongue, and then he could spot anger and defiance, mingled with resignation. What he saw was the most unusual of conflicts: Men covered with the tattered clothing of harshness and deprivation, yet undefeated by their condition, even knowing they had no hope. The Russians slowly shuffled forward, marching to the next minute, which was nothing but sixty seconds closer to their inevitable deaths.

Tommy found himself choking, unable to speak.

But in that moment, he saw a remarkable thing: Inside the American compound, just beyond the wire, Vincent Bedford had been at the plate, in the midst of a softball game. Like all the players, and the rest of the kriegies, he had seen the Russian prisoners' painful approach. Most of the Americans stood riveted in place, fascinated by the skeletons shuffling past.

But not Bedford. With a bellow, he'd dropped the bat to the dust; waving his arms and shouting furiously, Trader Vic had turned and raced back into the nearest hut, the thick wooden door slamming with a resounding shot behind him.

For an instant. Tommy was confused, not understanding what Bedford was yelling. But it became clear within seconds, because the Mississippian emerged from the hut almost as quickly as he had first disappeared, but now his arms were filled with loaves of dark German-issued bread. He was shouting: "Kriegsbrot! Kriegsbrot!" at the other POWs in his distinctive southern drawl. Then, without hesitating to see if his message was understood, Vincent Bedford ran forward, sprinting quickly to the camp gate. Tommy saw the German guards suddenly swing their weapons in his direction.

A German Feldwebel, wearing a soft campaign hat, broke away from the squad guarding the gate, dashing toward Bedford and waving his arms.

The Feldwebel was shouting, "Nein! Nein! Ist verboten!" As he raced toward the U.S. airman, the Feldwebel was struggling to remove his Mauser pistol from his holster. He stood in front of Bedford, just as Trader Vic reached the gate.

The column of Russians slowed even further, their heads pivoting toward the shouting. Now they were barely moving despite the sudden insistent commands from the guards, "Schnell Schnell!"

The Feldwebel stared angrily at Bedford, eyes narrowed with hatred, as if, in that second, the American and the German were no longer prisoner and guard, but merely deadly enemies. The Feldwebel managed finally to get his weapon out, and with frightening, serpent like speed, brought it to bear directly on the southerner's chest. "Ist verboten!" he repeated harshly.

Tommy saw a wild look in Bedford's eyes.

"Verboten? " He spoke in a high-pitched drawl, his lip pulled back in a sneer.

"Well, guess what, fella? Fuck you."

Bedford stepped briskly to the side of the German, ignoring the weapon.

In a single, graceful, and smooth motion, he cocked back his arm, and like a shortstop fielding a grounder deep in the hole, he threw a loaf of bread over the top of the barbed-wire fence. The loaf spun in the air, cartwheeling through the sky, arcing like a tracer round until it landed directly in the midst of the Russian prisoners.

The column of Russians seemed to explode. Without leaving their formation, they all pivoted, facing the American camp. Their arms were raised instantly in entreaty, and their deep voices pierced through the May afternoon.

"Brot! Brot!" they shouted over and over again.

The German Feldwebel thumbed back the hammer of his pistol, making a clicking sound that Tommy heard above the entreaties of the Russians.

The other guards chambered rounds as well. But they all stood in place, none making a move either toward Bedford or the column of Russians.

Bedford turned to the Feldwebel and said, "Why don't y'all just relax, buddy. You can kill 'em all tomorrow. But today, at least, they're gonna get to eat." He grinned wildly, and tossed another loaf over the fence, then a third. The Feldwebel stared hard at Bedford for a moment, as if internally debating whether he should fire, then shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. He slowly returned his pistol to its holster.

By this time dozens of other kriegies had emerged from the huts, their arms laden with the hard loaves of German bread.

Men started to line the fence, and within minutes a rain of bread cascaded down upon the Russian prisoners, who without breaking formation gathered up each morsel. Tommy saw Bedford launch his final loaf, then stand back, arms folded, smiling widely.

The Germans allowed the scene to continue.

After a few moments. Tommy noticed a single loaf of bread that didn't quite have the distance. Short-armed was the baseball term for a throw that was destined to land shy of its target. This loaf fell to the earth a dozen feet away from the column of men. In the same instant, he saw a small, rabbit like Russian soldier on the edge of the lines of men spot the loaf.

The man seemed to hesitate, taking note that no other prisoner had broken formation to retrieve the precious bread. At that second. Tommy could suddenly imagine the man's mind, calculating, assessing his chances. Bread was life. Leaving formation could be death. A danger.

A risk. But a great prize.

He wanted to shout out to the man: "No! It's not worth it!" but he could not remember the Russian, "Nyet! " And in that hesitation, the soldier abruptly darted from the column of men, bent over, his outstretched arms reaching for the short loaf.

He did not make it.

A single, ragged burst from a machine pistol pierced the air, shattering the cries of the prisoners. The Russian soldier pitched forward, sprawling a few feet away from the precious loaf. He twitched once, his back arcing in agony, a dark bloodstain spreading into the dust around him, then lay still.

The column of prisoners seemed to shudder along its length. But instead of shouts of outrage, the Russians grew instantly silent. It was a quiet laced with hatred and fury.

The German guard who'd fired slowly walked up to the body and nudged it with his boot. He worked the bolt on his weapon, ejecting the spent clip, replacing it with a new load.

Then he gestured sharply at two men from the column, who slowly stepped out, crossed the short distance, and bent down to pick up the body.

Both men slowly made the sign of the cross over their hearts, but one of the men, his eyes lifted toward the German guard, reached out and seized the deadly loaf of bread. The Russian soldier had a snarl plastered across his face, like some cornered animal turned at bay, a wolverine or a badger, ready to defend itself with whatever tooth and claw it had left in its tattered arsenal. Then the prisoners grasped the body, lifting it to their shoulders like some gory prize. They returned to the line of men, but only after staring harshly at the murderous guard for several long instants.

Tommy Hart was afraid the Germans might open up on the entire column, and he quickly looked around for someplace to take cover.

"Raus!" the German commanded. There was a touch of nervousness in his voice. The lines of men reluctantly struggled back into rough formation and slowly started forward again.

But from deep within the column, a single anonymous voice surged upward in a slow, sad song. Deep, resonant, the strange foreign words drifted into the air above the line of prisoners, rising above the muffled, shuffling sound of their feet. None of the Germans made any immediate effort to halt the song and it continued, its words perhaps incomprehensible to Tommy but its meaning apparent. The singing finally faded away, as the column disappeared into the distant line of fir trees.

"Hey, Fritz," he whispered, though he knew the answer.

"What was he singing?"

"It was a song of thanks," Fritz Number One quietly responded.

"And a song of freedom."

The ferret shook his head.

"It will likely be his last song," he said.

"The singer will not come alive from the forest."

Then he pointed Tommy toward the gate, where Vincent Bedford remained standing. The Mississippian was also watching the Russians until they passed from sight. His smile had slid from his face, and Bedford lifted his right hand and touched the brim of his cap. A small salute.

"I did not think," Fritz Number One muttered, as he hurriedly motioned for the gate guard to open up, "that our friend Trader Vic was a man of such bravery. It was foolhardy to risk his life for some Russian that is going to die maybe today, maybe tomorrow. But soon. But it was very brave."

Tommy nodded. He thought much the same. But he was even more surprised to learn that Fritz Number One knew Vincent Bedford's camp nickname.

As the gate to the South Compound swung shut behind him. Tommy caught a glimpse of Lincoln Scott. The black flier was standing in the distance, on the edge of the deadline, staring out to where the Russians had entered the thick dark line of trees. As always, Lincoln Scott stood alone.

Shortly before the Germans turned off the electricity for the night, Tommy slid into his bunk in Hut 101. He perched a work on civil procedure on his upraised knees, but found himself unable to absorb the dry prose of the textbook. The case synopsis seemed dull and unimaginative, and he found his mind wandering to the courtroom in Flemington and the trial that had been held there. He recalled what Phillip Pryce had said about hatred forming the undercurrent to the legal proceedings, and thought there had to be a way to turn that rage around. He thought the best lawyer finds a way to harness whatever external force is directed at his client and take advantage of it.

He kept a few stubs of pencil in a tin by his bed, and he twisted beneath his blanket, grabbing for one, and reaching at the same time for a sheet of scrap paper. He wrote this last thought down, and decided he would reexamine the carpenter's case once again. He smiled to himself, thinking this was a small act of legal desperation, because the facts that Hugh Renaday was stolidly relying upon were arrayed like a phalanx of hoplites against him. Still, he acknowledged, Phillip was a man of subtlety, and an intriguing argument might serve to shift him away from the evidence. That would be a major coup, he thought.

He wondered what sort of reputation the attorney who freed Bruno Richard Hauptmann would gain. Even in this fictional re-creation of the case.

He looked down at his watch. The Germans were oddly erratic in when they shut the lights off. For people who did most everything with utter predictability, this was unusual, and almost inexplicable. He guessed not more than thirty more minutes of light remained in the hut.

He took the watch off his wrist, and turned it over, reading the inscription as he slid his finger across it. He closed his eyes and found that he could shut away the camp sounds and smells, and taking a deep breath could find himself back in Vermont. There was a tendency to fantasize about the special moments back home the first time Lydia and he kissed, the first time he felt the soft curve of her breast beneath his palm, the moment he knew he would love her no matter what happened to him. But he fought off these memories, favoring daydreams about the ordinary, the routine days of growing up. He would remember pulling a glistening rainbow trout that rose to his dry fly from a small curve in the Mettawee River, where the flow of water had carved out a little pool that held big fish, and only he seemed to know about it. Or the early September day he'd helped his mother as she packed his bags for the academy, folding each shirt two or three times before placing it gently in the big leather suitcase. He'd been an excited fourteen that day, and hadn't really understood why she kept dabbing away tears.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The ordinary days were the special ones, he thought. The 'special days were spectacular.

Events to be memorialized.

He took a deep breath and slowly opened his eyes.

Tommy let out a long, slow sigh. It takes a place like this, he realized, to make you understand.

He shook his head slightly, reaching for the textbook, his attention driven like a herder's cattle team into focus, with mental whip and imagined sharp words.

He was lying like that, in his berth, concentrating on the case law governing a dispute between a paper corporation and its employees from more than a dozen years earlier, when he heard the first angry shout coming from one of the other bunk rooms in Hut 101.

The sound made him sit up sharply. He pivoted his head, like a dog that catches a scent on an odd breath of wind, turning toward the noise. He heard a second, then a third shout, and the thudding noise of furniture slammed against the thin walls.

He swung himself out of the bunk, as did the other men in his room. He heard a voice say, "What the hell's going on?"

But by the time the question was out, he'd already headed to the central corridor running the length of Hut 101 and toward the noise of the fight in progress. He barely had time to think how unusual this was, but in all his months at Stalag Luft Thirteen he'd never, not once, seen or heard of two men coming to blows. Not over a poker game loss, or a hard slide into second base. Not a dispute on the hard dirt basketball court, or over a theatrical interpretation of The Merchant of Venice.

Kriegies did not fight. They negotiated. They debated.

They took the minor defeats of camp in complete stride, not because they were soldiers trained to military discipline, but because they understood implicitly that they were all in the bag together.

Personalities that clashed invariably found ways of working out their differences, or studiously avoided each other. If men held rage, it was rage at the wire and at the Germans and at the bad luck that had put them there, although most realized that in its own way the bad luck that had caused them to be shot down was the greatest good luck of all.

Tommy ran toward the voices, hearing intense fury and uncontrolled rage. It was hard for him to understand what the fight was about. Behind him, the corridor was filling with the curious, but he'd managed to move quickly, and so he was among the first men to arrive at Trader Vic's bunk room.

What Tommy saw astonished him.

A bunk bed had been partially overturned, and was leaning up against another. A hand-hewn wooden locker filled with cartons of cigarettes and tins of foodstuffs lay scattered in one corner. Some clothes were strewn about and several books were dashed to the floor.

Lincoln Scott stood alone, back against one wall. He was breathing hard and his fists were clenched.

The other bunkmates were arrayed in front of Vincent Bedford.

The Mississippian had a trickle of red blood streaking down from beneath his nose, across the corner of his mouth, and onto his chin. He was struggling against four men, who pinned his arms back, holding him.

Bedford's face was flushed, his eyes wild.

"You're a dead man, nigger!" he shouted.

"Hear me, boy?

Dead!"

Lincoln Scott said nothing, but stared at Bedford.

"I'm gonna see you die, boy," Bedford screamed.

Tommy felt himself abruptly shoved aside, and as he pivoted, he heard one of the other kriegies abruptly cry: "Attention!"

In the same instant, he saw the unmistakable figure of Colonel MacNamara, accompanied by Major David Clark, his executive officer and the camp's second in command.

As all the men in the room clicked their heels together and saluted, the two men pushed themselves into the center of the bunk room, rapidly surveying the detritus from the fight. MacNamara's face reddened swiftly, but his voice remained even and harshly calm. He turned to a first lieutenant Tommy knew only vaguely but who was one of Trader Vic's roommates.

"Lieutenant, what happened here?"

The man stepped forward.

"A fight, sir."

"A fight? Please continue."

"Captain Bedford and Lieutenant Scott, sir. A dispute over some items Captain Bedford claimed were missing from his private locker."

"Yes. Continue."

"Blows were exchanged."

MacNamara nodded, his face still filled with restrained anger.

"Thank you, lieutenant. Bedford, what have you to say in this matter?"

Trader Vic, shoulders pushed back, stepped forward with precision despite his disheveled appearance.

"Items of personal importance were missing, sir. Stolen."

"What items?"

"A radio, sir. A carton of smokes. Three bars of chocolate."

"Are you certain they are missing?"

"Yes sir! I keep very careful count of my inventory at all times, sir."

MacNamara nodded.

"I believe you do," he said stiffly.

"And you believe Lieutenant Scott to have committed this robbery?"

"Yes sir."

"And you accused him of this?"

"Yes sir."

"Did you see him take the items?"

"No sir." Bedford hesitated slightly.

"I returned to the bunk room. He was the only kriegie here. I made my usual evening count of the stock " MacNamara held up his hand, shutting him off. He turned to Scott.

"Lieutenant, have you taken any items from Bedford's locker?"

Scott's voice was husky, rough-edged, and Tommy thought he was trying to withhold emotion. His eyes were straight ahead, as if fixed not on any person, but the opposite wall, and his shoulders remained thrust back.

"No sir."

MacNamara narrowed his own eyes, staring hard at the black flyer.

"No?"

"No sir!"

"You maintain you've taken nothing from Captain Bedford?"

Asking the same question three times got Lincoln Scott to turn slightly, so that his eyes locked with Colonel MacNamara's.

"Correct, sir."

"So, you believe Captain Bedford is mistaken with his accusation?"

Scott hesitated, assessing the question before replying.

"I would not characterize what Captain Bedford is, or is not, sir. I merely state that I have not taken any possessions that rightfully belong to him."

MacNamara scowled at the response. He pointed a finger at the flier's chest.

"Scott, I will see you tomorrow morning after Appell in my room.

Bedford, you I will see…" for a moment, the briefest of seconds, the commanding officer hesitated. Then he spoke sharply: "No, Bedford,

I'll see you first. Right after morning roll call. Scott, you be waiting outside, and when I've finished with him, I'll see you. In the meantime, I want this place cleaned up. I want it completely shipshape in five minutes.

And as for tonight, there will be no further outbursts. Absolutely none! Do you men understand that?"

Both Bedford and Scott slowly nodded, and replied in unison: "Yes sir."

MacNamara half-turned to exit, then thought better of it.

He abruptly swung toward the lieutenant he'd first questioned.

"Lieutenant" he said sharply, bringing the officer to attention.

"I want you to gather a blanket and anything else you might need for this night. Tonight, you will occupy Major Clark's bunk." MacNamara swiveled toward his second in command, "Clark, tonight I think it might be advisable-" But the major cut him off.

"Absolutely, sir." He saluted crisply.

"No problem. I'll get my blanket." The second in command turned to the young lieutenant.

"Follow me," he said briskly. Then he turned toward Tommy and the other kriegies crowding the hallway.

"End of show!" he said loudly.

"Back to your bunks. Now!"

This the kriegies, including Tommy Hart, did rapidly, scattering and scooting down the hallway like so many cockroaches when a light has been shined on them. For a few minutes, from his own space, he could hear footsteps resounding off the wooden flooring in the central corridor.

Then a suffocating silence, followed by the sudden arrival of darkness when the Germans cut the electricity. This thrust all the huts into night's black and spilled inky calm over the small, compacted world of Stalag Luft Thirteen. The only light was the erratic sweep of a searchlight over the wire, across the rooftops of the huts, probing the shadows of the camp. The only noise was the distant and familiar crunching noise of a nighttime bombing raid on factories in some nearby city, reminding the men, as they struggled to drift off to whatever nightmares awaited them, that much of great significance and importance was happening elsewhere.

Rumors flew around the compound the following morning.

There was talk that both men were going to be sent to the cooler, others suggested that an officers' court was to be convened to hear the dispute over the alleged stealing. One man said he'd heard it from a top source that Lincoln Scott was going to be shifted to a room by himself, another said that Bedford had organized support from the entire southern contingent of kriegies, and that regardless of what Colonel MacNamara did, Lincoln Scott's days were numbered.

As was usually the case, none of the more exotic rumors were true.

Colonel MacNamara met with each man privately. Scott was told he would be moved to a different hut when a bunk became available, but that

MacNamara was not willing to order a man to shift locations to accommodate the black flier.

Bedford was told that without credible, eyewitness evidence that something had been stolen, his accusations were groundless.

He was ordered to leave Scott alone until a switch could be accomplished. MacNamara commanded both men to get along until other arrangements could be made. He pointedly reminded them that they were both officers in an army at war, and subject to military discipline at all times. He told them he expected them both to behave as gentlemen and that there would be nothing more to the matter. This last suggestion carried the complete weight of the colonel's temper, and it was clear, the kriegies universally agreed when they heard of this, that no matter how much the two men might now actually hate each other, being at the very top of Colonel MacNamara's shit list was far worse.

There was an uneasiness in the camp for the next days.

Outwardly, Trader Vic went back to wheeling and dealing, and Lincoln Scott returned to his reading and to his solitary turns around the camp perimeter. Inwardly, Tommy Hart suspected much more was happening with both men. He found it all very curious, and actually intriguing. There was a distinct fragility to life in a prisoner-of-war camp; any cracks in the carefully constructed veneer of civilization that they'd created was dangerous to them all. The awful routine of confinement, the stress of their near-death when they were shot from the sky, the fear that they'd been forgotten, or worse, were being ignored, lurked just beneath all their moments, every waking minute. They fought constantly against isolation and despair, because they all knew these were enemies that equaled the Germans in threat to them all.

It was the middle of a fine afternoon, sunlight pouring over the dull, drab colors of the camp, glinting off the wire. Tommy, a law book under his arm, had just exited from one of the Aborts, and was going to find a warm spot in which to read. A furious softball game was going on in the exercise field, men's voices raised in all the usual catcalls and taunts that accompany the game of baseball, intermixed with the occasional thump of bat against ball, and ball into mitt. Just beyond the game, Tommy saw Lincoln Scott walking the deadline.

The black man was perhaps thirty yards behind the right fielder, his head down, as usual, his pace steady, yet somehow tortured. Tommy thought Scott was beginning to resemble the Russians that had marched past and disappeared into the woods.

He hesitated, then decided he would make another effort to speak with the black flier. He guessed that since the fight in the barracks no one had spoken, other than in a perfunctory manner, to Lincoln Scott.

He doubted that Scott, no matter how strong he thought he might be, could keep up the combination of self-imposed isolation and ostracism without going crazy.

So, Tommy stepped deliberately across the compound, not really thinking about what he would say, but thinking that someone ought to say something. As he approached, he noticed that the right fielder, who had turned and stared briefly at the passing flier, was Vincent Bedford.

As he walked in their direction, Tommy heard a distant whom ping sound, instantly accompanied by a cascade of hoots and cries. He twisted and saw the white shape of a softball curving in a graceful parabola against the blue Bavarian sky.

In the same instant, Vincent Bedford turned, and raced back a half-dozen strides. But the arc of the ball was too quick, even for an expert like Bedford. The softball landed behind him with a thump in the dust, raising a small puffy cloud, and, filled with momentum, immediately rolled past the deadline, up against the wire.

Bedford stopped short, as did Tommy.

Behind them, the batter who'd launched the shot was circling the bases, shouting out, while his teammates cheered, and the other fielders yelled across the dirt diamond toward Bedford.

Tommy Hart saw Bedford grin.

"Hey, nigger!" the southerner called out.

Lincoln Scott stopped. He raised his head slowly, pivoting toward Vincent Bedford. His eyes narrowed. He said nothing in reply.

"Hey, little help, how 'bout it, boy?" Bedford said, gesturing to the softball resting up against the barbed wire.

Lincoln Scott turned and saw the ball.

"C'mon, boy, get the damn ball!" Bedford shouted.

Scott nodded, and took a step toward the deadline.

In that second, Tommy realized what was about to happen.

The black flier was about to step over the deadline to retrieve the baseball without first donning the white smock with the red cross that the Germans provided for exactly that purpose.

Scott seemed unaware that the machine-gun crew in the nearest tower had swiveled their weapon, and that it was trained on him.

"Stop!" Tommy shouted.

"Don't!"

The black flier's foot seemed to hesitate in midair, poised over the thin wire of the deadline. Scott turned toward the frantic noise.

Tommy found himself running forward, waving his arms.

"No! No! Don't!" he cried.

He slowed as he passed Bedford. He heard Trader Vic mutter, "Hart, you damn Yankee fool…" beneath his breath.

Scott remained 'stock-still, waiting for Tommy to approach him.

"What is it?" the black man asked sullenly, but with just a tinge of anxiety in his voice.

"You have to wear the damn jacket to cross the deadline without being shot," Tommy said breathlessly. He pointed back toward the baseball game, and they saw one of the kriegies who'd been playing half-running across the field, carrying the smock, which fluttered in the breeze he made by hurrying.

"If you don't have the red cross on, the Germans can shoot. Without warning. It's the rule. Didn't anyone tell you?"

Scott shook his head, but only slightly.

"No," he said slowly, staring past Tommy at Bedford.

"No one told me about the jacket."

By this time the kriegie carrying the smock had arrived at the deadline.

"Got to wear this, lieutenant," the man said, "unless you're looking to commit suicide."

Lincoln Scott continued to stare past the man, directly at Vincent

Bedford, who stood a few feet away. Bedford pulled off his leather baseball mitt and started massaging it, working the leather slowly and deliberately.

"So," Trader Vic called out again, "you gonna get us the ball, boy, or what? Game's wasting away here."

Tommy squared around toward Bedford.

"What the hell are you trying to pull, Bedford? They would have shot him before he'd gone two feet!"

The southerner shrugged, and didn't reply. He continued to grin widely.

"That would have been murder, Vic," Tommy shouted.

"And you damn well know it!"

Bedford shook his head.

"What'cha saying. Tommy? All I asked was for that boy there to get us the ball, 'cause he was closer. Why, of course I thought he'd wait for the smock. Any damn fool knows that you gotta be wearing those colors if you want to cross the deadline. Ain't that right?"

Lincoln Scott slowly pivoted, and turned his glance up toward the machine-gun crew leaning out over the tower, watching the gathering of kriegies closely. He reached out and took the pullover with the red cross and held it in his hand for a moment. Then he held it up, so the machine gunners could see it.

Then he deliberately dropped it to the dirt.

"Hey," the kriegie said.

"Don't do that!"

In the same instant, Lincoln Scott stepped over the deadline.

He kept his gaze on the machine-gun crew in the tower.

They stepped back, crouching behind their weapon. One of the crew worked the bolt on the side of the gun, which made a sharp, metallic clicking sound that resounded through the suddenly still camp air, while the other grasped the belt of bullets, ready to feed it into the gun's maw.

His eyes still locked on the gunners, Scott strode across the short space to the wire. He reached down and seized the softball, then walked slowly back to the deadline. He stepped over the line stiffly, gave the Germans in the tower a final, contemptuous glance, and then turned from the machine gunners to Vincent Bedford.

Bedford was still grinning, but the smile was fading and seemed false.

He slipped the mitt back onto his left hand and pounded the leather palm two or three times.

"Thanks, boy," he said.

"Now fire that pill right on over here so's we can get back to the game."

Scott looked at Bedford, then glanced down at the ball. He picked up his eyes slowly, and stared past Bedford, toward the center of the baseball diamond, and beyond, to where the catcher, a kriegie umpire, and the next batter were standing.

Scott hefted the softball in his right hand, then, abruptly stepping past Tommy, took a half-jumping stride forward and unleashed the ball in a single, savage throw.

Scott's toss carried on a direct line, like a shot from a fighter's cannon, across the dusty field, toward home plate. It bounced one time in the infield before slapping into the surprised glove of the catcher.

Even Bedford's mouth dropped open slightly at the speed and distance of the throw.

"Damn, boy," Bedford said, surprise ringing his words.

"Y'all got some kinda arm there."

"That's right," Scott said.

"I do." Then he turned, and without saying another word resumed his lonely walk around the deadline.