Hart’s War

Chapter Three

Shortly after dawn on the third day following the incident at the wire.

Tommy Hart was slowly awakening from another sleep rich in dreams when the high-pitched and shrill sounds of whistles once again catapulted him into alertness. The noise erased a strange dream-vision in which his girlfriend Lydia and the dead captain from West Texas were sitting on the small front porch of his parents' white clapboard house in Manchester in side-by-side rocking chairs, each beckoning to him to join them.

He heard one of the other men in the room mutter: "Christ, what is it this time? Another tunnel?"

A second voice replied as the slapping sound of feet hitting the wooden floors filled the air: "Maybe it's an air raid."

A third voice chimed m: "Can't be. No sirens. Gotta be another tunnel, goddamn it! I didn't know they were digging another tunnel."

Tommy pulled on his pants and blurted out, "We're not supposed to know.

We're never supposed to know. Only the tunnel kings and the escape planners are supposed to know. Is it raining?"

One of the other men pulled back the shutters over the window.

"Drizzling. Shit. Cold and wet."

The man at the window turned back to the rest of the crew in the bunk room and added with a small lilt to his voice, "They can't expect us to fly in this soup!"

This statement was immediately greeted by the usual mixture of laughter, groans, and catcalls.

From the bunk above him. Tommy heard a fighter pilot wonder out loud, "Maybe somebody tried to blitz out through the wire. Maybe that's what's going on."

One of the first voices replied with a sarcastic snort: "That's all you fighter jocks ever think: That somebody's gonna blitz out on their own."

"We're just independent thinkers," the fighter pilot replied, giving the other man a halfhearted, playful wave. Several of the other fliers laughed.

"You still need permission from the escape committee," Tommy said, shrugging.

"And after the last tunnel failure, I doubt they'd give anybody permission to attempt suicide.

Even some crazy Mustang jockey."

There were a few grunts of assent to this comment.

Outside, the whistles continued, and there was the rumbling and thudding noise of booted men running in formation.

The kriegies in Hut 101 started to reach for woolen sweaters and leather flight jackets hanging from makeshift lines stretched between the bunks, while shouts from the guards urged them to hurry. Tommy laced his boots tightly, grabbed his weatherbeaten cap, and quickly made his way into the push of Allied prisoners emerging from their bunks.

As he passed through the barracks door, he turned his face upward to a deadening gray sky, feeling a misty rain on his face and a deep fog like chill penetrate past the barrier of underwear and sweater and jacket. He instantly raised his collar, hunched his shoulders forward, and started for the assembly ground.

But what he saw almost made him stop.

Two dozen German soldiers, in long, winter-issue greatcoats, their steel helmets glistening with moisture, ringed the Abort located between Hut 101 and Hut 102. Hard-eyed and wary, the soldiers faced the Allied airmen, rifles at the ready.

They seemed poised, as if awaiting a command.

There was only one entrance to the Abort, at the near end of the small wooden frame building. Von Reiter, the camp commander, a gray overcoat tinged with a red satin lining more suitable for a night at the opera draped haphazardly across his shoulders, stood outside the single Abort doorway.

As usual, he had his riding crop in his hand, but now he repeatedly smacked it against the polished black leather of his boots. Fritz Number One, at rigid attention, stood a few paces away. Von Reiter ignored the ferret as he watched the kriegies hurry past him. Other than the nervousness with the riding crop, Von Reiter stood like one of the sentinel fir trees that lined the distant forest, oblivious to the hour and the cold.

The commandant's eyes darted over the rows of men forming on the assembly ground, almost as if he were intent on counting them all himself, or as if he recognized each face as it passed by.

The men gathered into blocks and came to attention with their backs to the Abort and the squad of soldiers surrounding it. A few kriegies tried to twist about and see what was happening behind them, but the "eyes front!" command came barked from the center of the formation.

This made them all nervous; no one likes having armed men standing behind them. Tommy listened carefully, but could not make out what was happening in the Abort. He shook his head slightly, and whispered to no one and everyone at the same time: "That's a helluva place to dig a tunnel. Who thought that baby up?"

A man behind him answered, "The usual geniuses, I guess.

Situation normal…"

"All fucked up…" a couple of voices spoke in unison.

Then yet another man in the formation added, "Yeah, but how the hell did the Krauts ever find it? Man, it's the best, worst place to be digging. If you could stand the smell… " "Yeah, if…"

"Some guys would be willing to crawl through the shits to get out of here," Tommy said.

"Not me," he heard in reply. But another voice just as quickly disagreed.

"Man, if I could get outta here, I'd crawl through a lot worse stuff.

Hell, I'd do it just for a twenty-four-hour pass.

Just for a day, Christ, even a half day on the other side of that damn wire."

"You're crazy," the first man said.

"Yeah, maybe. But stayin' in this dump ain't doing much for my overall state of sanity, neither."

A number of voices murmured in agreement.

"There goes the old man," one of the airmen whispered.

"And Clarkie, too. Looks like they got fire in their eyes."

Tommy Hart saw the Senior American Officer and his second in command pace across the front of the formations, then swing past the men, heading toward the Abort. MacNamara marched with the intensity of a West Point parade ground drill instructor. Major Clark, whose legs seemed half the size of the senior officer's, struggled to keep pace.

It might have been slightly comic were it not for the hard look on each man's face.

"Maybe they can figure out what this is all about," the same voice muttered.

"I hope so. Man, my feet are already soaked.

I can hardly feel my toes."

But an immediate answer was not forthcoming. The men remained at attention for another thirty minutes, occasionally shuffling their feet against the cold, shivering. Thankfully, the drizzle stopped, but the skies above them lightened only dully as the sun rose, revealing a wide gray world.

After nearly an hour, the kriegies saw Colonel MacNamara and Major Clark accompany Oberst Von Reiter through the front gate, and disappear into the camp office building. They had still not been counted, which Tommy found surprising.

He did not know what was going on, and his curiosity was energized.

Anything out of the routine of camp life, he thought, was to be welcomed in its own way. Anything that was different, anything that reminded them that they were not isolated. In a way, he hoped the Germans had discovered another tunnel. He liked acts of defiance, even if he wasn't altogether comfortable issuing them himself. He liked it when Bedford threw the bread to the Russians. He was pleased, although surprised, at Lincoln Scott's rashness at the wire. He liked anything that reminded him that he wasn't merely a kriegie, but an actual person. But these things were few and far between.

After another lengthy wait, Fritz Number One came to the head of the formations. In a loud voice, he announced, "At ease. The morning count will be delayed for a few moments more. You may smoke. Do not leave your position."

The captain from New York called out, "Hey, Fritz! Whadda 'bout letting us go take a leak. Some of the guys gotta go real bad."

Fritz Number One shook his head sharply.

"Not allowed. Not yet. Verboten," he said.

The kriegies grumbled, but relaxed. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted about him. Tommy, however, noticed that Fritz Number One, who by all rights should have immediately cadged a smoke off some prisoner, remained standing, his eyes searching over the columns of men. After a few seconds, Tommy saw that Fritz Number One had spotted the man he was looking for, and the ferret strode forward toward the men from Hut 101.

Fritz Number One approached Lincoln Scott.

"Lieutenant Scott," the ferret said in a normal, but low voice, "you will please to accompany me to the commandant's office."

Tommy saw the black airman hesitate for an instant, then step forward.

"If you wish," Scott said.

The pilot and the ferret then quick-marched across the assembly ground and through the front gate. Two guards swung it open for them, closing it just as swiftly behind them.

For a second or two, the formations of men were quiet.

Then abruptly voices picked up, like the wind right before a storm.

"What the hell?"

"What do the Krauts want with him?"

"Hey, anybody know what fer Christ's sake is going on?"

Tommy kept quiet. Now his curiosity was racing, fueled by the voices around him. It's all very strange, he thought.

Strange because it is out of the ordinary. Strange because nothing like this has ever happened before.

The men continued grumbling and muttering for nearly another hour. By now, whatever morning was going to penetrate the gloomy skies had managed its weak efforts and whatever warmth the day could promise had arrived. Not much. Tommy thought. The men were hungry. Many had to go to the toilets. All were wet and cold.

And all were curious.

A few moments later, Fritz Number One again appeared at the gate. The guards opened it and he half-ran through, heading straight for the men from Hut 101. Fritz Number One was slightly red-faced, but there was nothing in his approach that indicated anything about what was going on.

"Lieutenant Hart," he said, coughing back short gasps of breath, "would you please come with me now to the commandant's office?"

From directly behind him, Tommy heard a man whisper, "Tommy, get the lowdown on what's going on, will ya?"

"Please, Lieutenant Hart, right away, please," Fritz Number One pleaded.

"I do not like to keep Herr Oberst Von Reiter waiting."

Tommy stepped forward to the ferret's side.

"What's going on, Fritz?" he asked quietly.

"Just to hurry please, lieutenant. The Oberst will explain."

Fritz Number One was quick-marching through the gate.

Tommy stole a rapid glance around him. The gate creaked as it swung shut behind his back, and he had the distinctly eerie sensation that he was walking directly through a door that he'd never known existed. He wondered for a moment whether the sensation he felt at that second was the same as what the men who bailed out of their stricken planes experienced, as they tumbled free into the cold, clear air, everything they'd known before as familiar and safe abruptly cut away from them in that instant of panic, leaving only the single passionate desire to live. He decided it was.

He took a deep breath, and hurried up the wooden steps to the commandant's office, his boots resounding off the floor like a volley of rifle shots.

On the wall directly behind the commandant's desk was the obligatory full-color portrait of Adolf Hitler. The artist had captured the Fuhrer with a distant, exulting look in his eyes, as if he were searching Germany's idealized future and saw it to be perfect and prosperous. Tommy Hart thought it was a look few Germans had anymore.

B-17s in the daytime and Lancasters at night in repeated waves make the future look less rosy. To the right of the portrait of Hitler was a smaller picture of a group of German officers standing beside the charred and twisted wreckage of a Russian Topolev fighter. A smiling Von Reiter was in the. center of the group in the photograph.

The commandant, however, wore no smile as Tommy walked to the center of the small room. Von Reiter was seated behind his oaken desk, a telephone at his right hand, some loose papers on the blotter in front of him, next to the ubiquitous riding crop. Colonel MacNamara and

Major Clark stood to his left. There was no sign of Lieutenant Scott.

Von Reiter stared across at Tommy and took a sip from a delicate china cup of steaming ersatz coffee.

"Good morning, lieutenant," he said.

Tommy clicked his heels together and saluted. He stole a single glance at the two American officers, but they were standing aside, their posture alert, but at ease. They, too, wore stern, rigid expressions.

"Herr Oberst," Tommy answered.

"Your superiors have some questions for you, lieutenant," Von Reiter said. His English was accented but excellent, every bit as good as

Fritz Number One's, although the ferret could probably have passed for American with the slang he'd acquired slinking around the American compound. Tommy doubted the aristocratic Von Reiter was interested in learning the words to "Cats on the Roof." Tommy half-turned to face the two Americans.

"Lieutenant Hart," Colonel MacNamara began slowly.

"How well do you know Captain Vincent Bedford?"

"Vic?" Tommy replied.

"Well, we're in the same hut. I've made trades with him. He always gets the better of the bargain.

I've spoken with him a few times about home, and complained about the weather or the food " "Is he a friend of yours, lieutenant?" Major

Clark abruptly demanded.

"No more, no less than anyone in the camp, sir," Tommy answered sharply. Major Clark nodded.

"And," Colonel MacNamara steadily continued, "how would you characterize your relationship with Lieutenant Scott?"

"I have no relationship, sir. No one does. I made an effort to be friendly, but that was it."

MacNamara paused, then asked: "You witnessed the altercation between the two men in their bunk room?"

"No sir. I arrived after the men had been separated, only seconds before yourself and Major Clark entered the room."

"But you heard threats made?"

"Yes sir."

The SAO nodded.

"And then, I'm told, there was a subsequent incident at the wire…"

"I would not characterize it as an incident, sir. Perhaps a misunderstanding of the rules that might have had fatal results."

"Which, I'm told, you prevented by shouting a warning."

"Perhaps. It happened swiftly."

"Would you say that this incident served to increase or further exacerbate already tense feelings between the two officers?"

Tommy paused. He had no idea what the men were driving at, but told himself to keep his answers short. He could see that both Americans and the German were paying close attention to everything he said. He warned himself inwardly to be cautious.

"Sir, what's going on?" he asked.

"Just answer the question, lieutenant."

"There was tension between the men, sir. I believe it was racial in nature, although Captain Bedford denied that to me in one conversation.

Whether it was increased or not, I wouldn't know."

"They hated each other, correct?"

"I could not say that."

"Captain Bedford hates the Negro race and made no effort to hide that fact from Lieutenant Scott, is that not true?"

"Captain Bedford is outspoken, sir. On any number of topics."

"Would you think it safe," Colonel MacNamara asked slowly, "to say that Lieutenant Scott would likely have felt threatened by Captain

Bedford?"

"It would probably be hard for him not to. But-" Major Clark snorted an interruption.

"The Negro is here for less than two weeks and already we have a fight where he takes a cheap shot at a brother officer, and higher-ranking to boot, we have probably well-founded accusations of theft, and then an alleged incident at the wire…" He stopped abruptly, then asked, "You're from Vermont-correct, Hart?

There are no Negro problems in Vermont that I know of, correct?"

"Yes sir. Manchester, Vermont. And we don't have any problems that

I'm aware of, sir. But we're not currently in Manchester, Vermont."

"That is obvious, lieutenant," Clark said sharply, his voice rising slightly with anger.

Von Reiter, who had been sitting quietly, spoke out briskly.

"I would think the lieutenant would be an appropriate choice for your task, colonel, judging from the careful way he answers your inquiries.

You are a lawyer, not a soldier, lieutenant, this is true?"

"I was in my final year at Harvard Law School when I enlisted. Right after Pearl Harbor."

"Ah." Von Reiter smiled, but humorlessly.

"Harvard. A justly famed institution for learning. I attended the

University of Heidelberg, myself. I intended to become a physician, until my country summoned me."

Colonel MacNamara coughed, clearing his voice.

"Were you aware of Captain Bedford's combat record, lieutenant?"

"No sir."

"A Distinguished Flying Cross with oak clusters. A Purple Heart. A

Silver Star for action above Germany. He did his tour of twenty-five, then volunteered for a second tour. More than thirty-two missions before being shot down-" Von Reiter interrupted.

"A most decorated and impressive flier, lieutenant. A war hero." The commandant wore a shining black iron cross on a ribbon around his own neck, and he fingered it as he spoke.

"An adversary that any fighter of the air would respect."

"Yes sir," Tommy said.

"But I don't understand…"

Colonel MacNamara took a deep breath and then spoke sullenly, in a voice of barely restrained rage.

"Captain Vincent Bedford of the United States Army Air Corps was murdered sometime after lights out last night here within the confines of Stalag Luft Thirteen."

Tommy's jaw dropped open slightly.

"Murdered, but how…"

"Murdered by Lieutenant Lincoln Scott," MacNamara said briskly.

"I don't believe-" "There is ample evidence, lieutenant," Major Clark interrupted sharply.

"Enough to court-martial him today."

"But…" "Of course, we won't do that. Not today, at least. But soon."

We expect to form a military court of justice shortly to hear the charges against Lieutenant Scott. The Germans"-and here MacNamara made a small gesture toward Commandant Von Reiter-"have consented to allow us to do this. In addition, they will comply with the court's sentence. Whatever it might be."

Von Reiter nodded.

"We request only that I be allowed to assign an officer to observe all details of the case, so that he may report the outcome to my superiors in Berlin. And, of course, should a firing squad be necessitated, we would provide the men. You Americans, surely, would be present at any execution, though-" "A what? "Tommy blurted.

"You're joking, sir."

No one" of course, was joking, a fact he understood instantly.

He took a deep breath. His head seemed to spin dizzily, and he struggled to keep control. He detected that his voice had risen when he asked, "But what do you want from me, sir?" He directed the question to Colonel MacNamara.

"We would like you to represent the accused, lieutenant."

"Me, sir? But I'm not-" "You have the legal knowledge. Your bunk is filled with texts on the law, surely there's something there about military justice. And your task is relatively simple. You need merely to make certain that Lieutenant Scott's military and constitutional rights are protected while justice is done."

"But, sir-" Major Clark snapped his interruption sharply: "Look, Hart.

It's an open-and-shut case. We have evidence. We have witnesses. We have motive. We have opportunity. We have well-documented hatred. And we damn well don't want a riot on our hands when the rest of the camp finds out that a damn nig…" he started, then stopped, paused, and rephrased his sentence "… when the camp finds out Lieutenant Scott killed an extremely popular, well-known, and highly respected, decorated, and dedicated officer. And killed him in a brutal, savage fashion. We will not have a lynching, lieutenant.

Not while we are in command. The Germans want to avoid this, as well.

Hence, due process. Of which you are to be an important part. Someone needs to make a show of defending Scott. And that, lieutenant, is an order. From me, from Colonel MacNamara, and from Oberst Von Reiter, as well."

Tommy Hart inhaled deeply.

"Yes sir," he said.

"I understand."

"Good."

Major Clark nodded.

"I will personally handle the prosecution of the case. I would think a week, ten days from now, we can schedule our tribunal. Best to get this over with quickly, commandant."

Von Reiter nodded.

"Yes," the German said, "we should move with diligence. To hurry might be unseemly. But lengthy delay would create as many problems. Let us move with all due speed."

Colonel MacNamara turned to the commandant.

"I will have the names of the officers selected for the court-martial tribunal in your hands by this afternoon."

"Excellent."

"And," the colonel continued, "I think we can safely conclude business by the end of the month. Early June at the latest."

"That, too, would be acceptable. I have already summoned a man whom I will designate as the liaison officer between your proceedings and the

Luftwaffe. Hauptmann Visser is enroute. He will be here within the hour…"

"Excuse me, colonel," Tommy said quietly.

MacNamara pivoted in his direction.

"Yes, lieutenant?

What is it?"

"Well, sir," Tommy spoke with some hesitation, "I understand the need for tying this up rapidly, but I have a few requests, sir. If that's okay…"

"What is it. Hart?" Clark spoke briskly.

"Well, I need to know precisely what this 'evidence' you have consists of, sir. And the names of any witnesses. I don't mean any disrespect, major, but I also need to personally inspect the murder scene. I may also need someone to help me prepare a defense. Even for an open-and-shut case."

"Someone to help? Whatever for?"

"Someone to share the burden. This would be traditional, sir, in any capital case."

Clark frowned.

"Perhaps back in the States. I'm not sure that's totally necessary given our circumstances here at Stalag Luft Thirteen. Who do you have in mind, lieutenant?"

Tommy took another deep breath.

"That would be Flying Officer Hugh Renaday of the R.A.F. He's in the North Compound."

Clark instantly shook his head.

"I don't think involving the British is a good idea. This is our dirty laundry and it's best we wash it by ourselves. Out of the question…"

But Von Reiter let a small grin slip across his face.

"Herr major," the commandant said, "I think it wise that Lieutenant Hart be given every possible accommodation in the difficult and delicate task that he has been assigned. This way any impropriety will be avoided clearly. His request for assistance is not unreasonable, no? Flying Officer Renaday, lieutenant, he has some experience in matters of this sort?"

Tommy nodded.

"Yes sir."

Von Reiter nodded in return.

"Then I think perhaps he is an excellent suggestion. And, Colonel MacNamara, his assistance will not mean that another of your officers will have to be compromised by this unfortunate incident and its inevitable outcome."

Tommy thought this an interesting statement, but kept quiet.

The SAO narrowed his gaze at the German, taking his time to assess what the commandant had said.

"You are correct, Herr Oberst. This makes perfectly good sense. And having a Brit involved, instead of another American-" "He's a Canadian, sir."

"Canadian? All the better. Request approved, then, lieutenant."

"The crime scene, sir. I need to-" "Yes, of course. As soon as the body is removed…"

Tommy was surprised.

"The body hasn't been removed?"

"No, Hart. The Germans will detail a squad as soon as the commandant orders it."

"Then I want to see it. Right now. Before anything has been disturbed. Has the scene been secured?"

Von Reiter, still with the faintest of smiles on his lips, nodded.

"It has not been disturbed since the unfortunate discovery of Captain Bedford's remains, lieutenant. I can assure you of that. Other than myself, and your two superior officers, no one has examined the location. Except, perhaps, the accused."

He continued to smile.

"I must hasten to inform you, that your request is precisely the same as that made by Hauptmann Visser when I spoke with him early this morning."

"And the evidence. Major Clark?" Tommy asked, The major snarled, staring at Hart with distaste.

"I will compile it and make it available to you at the earliest appropriate moment."

"Thank you, sir. And I have another request, as well, sir."

"Another request? Hart, your task here is simple. Protect the accused's rights with honor. No more, no less."

"Of course, sir. But I think I need to speak with Lieutenant Scott to do that. Where is he?"

Von Reiter continued to smile, obviously taking some pleasure in the discomfort of the American officers.

"He has been escorted to the cooler, lieutenant. You may see him after you have inspected the crime scene."

"With Flying Officer Renaday, please, sir."

"As you requested."

There was a boxlike intercom on the desk in front of Von Reiter, and he reached out to it, pressing a switch. A buzzer went off in the adjoining office, a door immediately swung open, and Fritz Number One entered the room.

"Corporal, you will accompany Lieutenant Hart to the North Compound, where the two of you will find Flying Officer Hugh Renaday. Then you will escort these two men to the Abort please, where you discovered the remains of Captain Bedford, and provide whatever assistance they might need. When they have completed their inspection of the body and the area surrounding it, please take Lieutenant Hart to see the prisoner."

Fritz Number One saluted sharply.

"Ja wohl, Herr Oberst! " he blurted in German.

Tommy turned toward the two American officers. But before he could say anything else, MacNamara raised his hand to his cap brim in a slow salute.

"You are dismissed, lieutenant," he said slowly.

Phillip Pryce and Hugh Renaday were in their bunk room inside the British compound when Tommy Hart, accompanied by Fritz Number One, appeared at the door. Pryce was balancing in a stiff-backed, rough-hewn wooden chair, with his feet perched up on the top of the black steel potbellied stove in a corner of the bunk room. He had a stub of a pencil in one hand and a book of crossword puzzles in the other. Renaday was sitting a few feet away, a dog-eared Penguin paperback of Agatha Christie's The ABC Murders in his hands. They both looked up when Tommy hovered in the doorway and immediately burst into smiles.

"Thomas!" Pryce almost shouted.

"Unexpected! But always welcome, even unannounced! Come in, come in!

Hugh, to the cupboard quickly, let us entertain our guest with some appropriate foodstuff! Have we any chocolate left?"

"Hello, Phillip," Tommy said quickly.

"Hugh. Actually, I'm not making a social call."

Pryce dropped his feet 10 the floor with a thud.

"Not social? Ah, most intriguing. And by the distinctively harried look on your young face, something of significance, I'll wager."

"What's the problem. Tommy?" Hugh Renaday asked, standing.

"You look like, well, you look like something's up.

Hey, Fritz! Take a couple of smokes and wait outside, how about it?"

"I cannot leave, Mr. Renaday," Fritz Number One said.

Hugh Renaday stepped forward, while Phillip Pryce also stood.

"Is there a problem at home. Tommy? With your folks or the famous Lydia that we've heard so much about? Surely no…"

Tommy shook his head vigorously.

"No, no. Not at home."

"Then what is the matter, lad?"

Tommy spun about. The other occupants of the hut were out, which he thought was fortunate. He did not expect the news of the murder to be secret long, but he recognized that it might be wise to conceal it as long as possible.

"There's been an incident over in the American camp," Tommy said.

"I have been ordered by the SAO to help with what for lack of another word I'll call the 'investigation."

"What sort of incident. Tommy?" Pryce asked.

"A death, Phillip."

"Holy mother, this sounds like trouble," Hugh Renaday burst out.

"How can we help you, Tommy?"

Tommy smiled at the hulking Canadian.

"Well, actually, Hugh, they've authorized me to enlist you. You're supposed to accompany me, right now. Kind of like an aide-de-camp."

Renaday looked surprised.

"Why me?"

Tommy grinned.

"Because idleness is the devil's playground, Hugh. And you've been far too idle for far too long."

Renaday snorted.

"That's cute," he said.

"But not an answer."

"In other words, my brusque Canadian compatriot," Pryce interrupted briskly, "Tommy will fill you in shortly."

"Thank you, Phillip. Exactly."

"Is there something I can do in the interim?" Pryce asked.

"Eager does not describe my enthusiasm."

Tommy smiled.

"Yes. But we'll have to talk later."

"Very secretive, Tommy. Hush, hush and all that. You have definitely pricked my not insubstantial curiosity. Don't know if this old heart could actually stand to wait too long."

"Bear with me, Phillip. But things are just happening. I got authorization for Hugh to help. It was just a guess, but I didn't think they would allow me anyone else. At least not officially.

Especially a high-ranking British officer. And especially one who was a famous barrister before the war. But Hugh will fill you in on everything we learn, and then we can talk."

The older man nodded.

"Rather have a direct hand in whatever it is," he said.

"But without details, I can still see your point. This death, then, I take it, has some importance? A political importance, perhaps?"

Tommy nodded.

Fritz Number One shuffled his feet.

"Please, Lieutenant Hart. Mr. Renaday is ready. We should make our way now to the Abort."

Both the Canadian and the British officer looked surprised again.

"An Abort?" Pryce asked.

Tommy stepped into the room and reached out and grasped the older man's hand.

"Phillip," he said quietly, "you have already been a better friend than I could have ever asked for. I will need all your expertise and all your capabilities over the next few days. But Hugh will have to provide the details. I hate to make you wait, but I can't see any other way. At least, not yet."

Pryce smiled.

"But, my dear boy, I understand. Military foolishness. I will wait here like the perfect soldier that I am, awaiting your pleasure.

Exciting, what? Something truly different.

Ah, delightful. Hugh, seize your coat and return fairly well stuffed with information. Until then, I will stay warm by the fire, allowing myself to fantasize with anticipation."

"Thanks, Phillip," Tommy said.

Then he quietly leaned forward, and whispered into Pryce's ear the words: "Lincoln Scott, the Negro fighter pilot.

And do you remember the Scottsboro boys?"

Pryce inhaled sharply. The quick intake of wind degenerated into a hacking cough. He nodded with comprehension.

"Damn damp weather. I recall that case. Infamous. Go swiftly," he said.

Renaday was swinging his thick arms into his coat. He also grabbed a pencil and a thin and precious pad of drawing paper.

"All set, Tommy," he said.

"Let's go."

The two airmen, with Fritz Number One urging them to hurry, marched toward the American compound. Tommy Hart filled in Renaday on what he'd learned in the commandant's office, and briefed him on both the fight and the incident at the wire. Renaday listened carefully, asking an occasional question, but mostly simply absorbing the details.

As the gate to the South Compound swung open for them, Renaday whispered: "Tommy, it's been six years since I was at a real crime scene. And what we had for murders out in Manitoba were drunken cowboys knifing each other in bars.

Usually there wasn't much to process, because the culprit would be sitting there covered with blood, beer, and Scotch."

"That's okay, Hugh," Tommy said quietly.

"I've never been to a crime scene."

The morning count had obviously been accomplished while he'd been at the commandant's office. The men had been dismissed, but still dozens of kriegies milled about the assembly yard, smoking, waiting, aware that something unusual was going on. The German guards maintained their tight ring around the Abort. The kriegies watched the Germans; the Germans watched them.

The clumps of airmen stepped aside carefully as Tommy, Hugh, and Fritz Number One approached the latrine. The guard squadron allowed them to pass. But Tommy hesitated at the door.

"Fritz," he asked, "you found the captain?"

The ferret nodded.

"Shortly after five this morning."

"And what did you do, then?"

"I immediately ordered two Hundfuhrers who were patrolling the perimeter of the camp to come to the Abort and make certain no one entered. Then I went to inform the commandant."

"How was it you found the body?"

"I heard a noise. I was just outside Hut 103. I did not move quickly, lieutenant. I was uncertain what I'd heard."

"What sort of noise?"

"A cry. Then nothing."

"Why did you go into the Abort!"

"It seemed that the noise had come from there."

Tommy nodded.

"Hugh?"

"Did you see anyone else?" the Canadian asked.

"No. I heard some doors closing. That is all."

Renaday started to ask a second question, then stopped. He thought for an instant, then demanded: "After you found the body, the Abort was left for a time. How long was it before you returned with the two Hundfuhrers."

The ferret looked up into the gray sky, trying to add up the time.

"A few minutes, certainly, flying officer. I did not want to blow my whistle and raise an alarm until I had informed the commandant. The men were located at the wire just outside Hut 116. A few seconds, maybe a minute to explain to them the urgency of the situation. Five minutes, perhaps. So, in total, perhaps as many as ten minutes."

"Are you certain that there was no one else about when you discovered the body?"

"I did not see anyone, Mr. Renaday. After I spotted the body, and after I made certain Captain Bedford was dead, I used my torch to quickly sweep the building. But the night was still upon us, and there are many shadowy places a man could hide. So I cannot be completely certain."

"Thank you, Fritz. One last thing…"

The ferret stepped forward.

"I want you to go find us a camera. Thirty-five millimeter, loaded with film. With a flash attachment and at least a half dozen flashbulbs. Right now."

"Impossible, flying officer! I know of no-" Renaday instantly stepped forward, pushing his face up toward the lanky ferret's nose.

"I know you know who's got one. Now, go get it, and bring it here without letting anyone know what the hell you're doing. Got that? Or would you prefer it if we marched over to the commandant's office and demanded it?"

Fritz Number One looked panicked for a moment, trapped between duty and the desire to be correct. Finally, he nodded.

"One of the tower guards is an amateur photographer…"

"Ten minutes. We'll be inside."

Fritz Number One saluted, turned on his heel, and hurried away.

"That was smart, Hugh," Tommy Hart said.

"Figured we might need some pictures." Then Hugh turned to Tommy and seized him by the arm.

"But look, Tommy.

What's our job here, after all?"

Tommy shook his head.

"I'm not sure. All I can tell you is that Lincoln Scott is going to be accused of doing what's inside the Abort. And the major says they've got all the evidence they need to convict him. I suppose we should try to help him as much as we can."

And with that, the two men stepped up to the door to the latrine.

"Ready?" Tommy asked.

"Forward the light brigade," Hugh replied.

"Theirs not to reason why…"

"Theirs but to do and die," Tommy finished the refrain. He thought this might have been a poor verse to select at that moment, but he did not say this out loud.

The Abort was a narrow building, with a single door located at one end.

The wood-plank floor of the building was raised up several feet, so that one had to walk up a short flight of rough steps to enter. This was to allow space beneath the privies for huge green metal drums that collected the waste.

There were six stalls, each with a door and partitions to provide privacy. The seats were hewn from hardwood and polished to a shine by use and near-constant scrubbing. Ventilation was provided by slatted windows up just beneath the roof line. Twice each day Abort details carted off the barrels of waste to an area in a corner of the camp where it was burned. What wouldn't burn was dumped in trenches and covered with lime. About the only thing the Germans provided the kriegies in abundance was time.

A stranger walking into an Abort for the first time might have been overcome by the fetid thickness of the smell, but the kriegies were used to it, and within a few days of their arrival at Stalag Luft Thirteen, the airmen learned that it was one of the few places in the camp where one could go and have a few minutes of relative solitude.

What most of the men hated was the lack of toilet paper. The Germans didn't provide any, and the Red Cross parcels were skimpy, preferring to send foodstuffs. Men used any possible scrap of paper.

Tommy and Hugh paused in the doorway.

The familiar stench filled their nostrils. There was no electricity in the Abort, so it was dim and dark, lit only by the gray overcast sky that filtered through the high slatted windows.

Renaday hummed briefly, a nameless snatch of music, before stepping forward.

"Tommy," he said, "think for a second. It was five in the morning, right? That's what Fritz said?"

"Correct," Tommy answered, keeping his voice low.

"What the hell was Vic doing here? The inside toilets were still operating.

The Krauts don't shut off the plumbing until midmorning.

And this place would have been pitch black. Except for the searchlight that sweeps over it… what?… every minute, maybe ninety seconds.

You wouldn't be able to see a thing."

"So, you wouldn't come out here unless you had some good reason…"

"And going to the bathroom isn't the reason."

Both men nodded.

"What're we looking for, Hugh?"

Hugh sighed.

"Well, they teach you in cop school that the crime scene can tell you everything that happened if you look closely enough. Let's see what we can see."

In unison, the two men stepped into the Abort. Tommy swung his eyes right and left, trying to absorb what had taken place, but uncertain in that second precisely what he was looking for. He moved ahead of Renaday, and pushed forward.

He paused just before reaching the final stall in the row, pointing down at the floor.

"Look there, Hugh," he said quietly.

"Doesn't that look like a footprint? Or at least part of one?"

Renaday knelt down. On the wooden floor of the latrine was the clear outline of the front of a boot heading toward the Abort stall. The Canadian touched the outline gingerly.

"Blood," he said. He looked up slowly, his eyes on the door to the last stall.

"In there, I guess," he spoke out with a small, quick inhale of breath.

"Check the door first, see if there's anything else."

"Like what?"

"Like a bloody fingerprint."

"No. Not that I can see."

Hugh got out his sketch pad and pencil. He quickly started to draw the interior layout of the Abort. He also noted the shape and direction of the footprint.

Tommy pushed the stall door open slowly, like a child peeking into his parents' room in the morning.

"Jesus," he whispered sharply.

Vincent Bedford was sitting on the privy seat, his pants pulled down to his ankles, half-naked. But his upper torso was thrust back against the wall, and his head lolled slightly to the right. His eyes were open wide in shock. His chest and shirt were coated with deep maroon streaks of blood.

His throat had been cut. On the left side of his neck the skin was laid open in a gory flap.

One of Trader Vic's fingers was partially severed and hung limply at his side. There was also a slashing cut in his right cheek, and his shirt was partially ripped.

"Poor Vic," Tommy said quietly.

The two airmen stared at the dead body. Both had seen a great deal of death, and seen it in horrific form, and they were not sickened by what they witnessed in the Abort. The sensation both men felt in that second was different, it was a shock of context. They had both seen men ripped asunder by bullets, explosions, and shrapnel; eviscerated, decapitated, and burned alive by the vagaries of battle. Both men had seen the viscera and other bloody remains of turret gunners actually hosed out of the Plexiglas cocoons where they'd died. But all those deaths came within the context of battle, where they both expected to see death at its most brutal. In the Abort it was different; here a man who should have been alive was dead. To die violently on the toilet was something altogether shocking and genuinely frightening.

"Jesus is right," Hugh said.

Tommy noticed that the flap over the chest pocket of Bedford's blouse was lifted at the corner. He thought that would have been where Trader

Vic kept his pack of smokes. He leaned across toward the body and lightly tapped the pocket.

It was empty.

Both men continued to examine the body. Tommy kept reminding himself inwardly to measure, to assess, to read the portrait in front of him as he would the page of a textbook, carefully, critically. He reminded himself of all the criminal cases he'd read in so many case books and how often a small detail resulted in the crucial observation. Guilt or innocence hanging on the tiniest of elements. The glasses that fell from Leopold's jacket. Or was it Loeb's? He couldn't remember.

Staring across at Vincent Bedford's body, he felt completely inadequate. He tried to recollect his last conversation with the

Mississippian, but this, too, seemed lost. He realized that the body tucked into the privy in front of him was quickly becoming the same as so many other bodies. Something simply shunted away and relegated to nightmare, joining the throngs of other dead and mutilated men inhabiting the dreams of the living. Yesterday it was Vincent Bedford, captain. Decorated bomber pilot and hotshot trader of camp wide renown.

Now he was dead, and no longer a part of Tommy Hart's waking life.

Tommy let out a long, slow draft of breath.

He searched the landscape of murder in front of him.

And then he saw what was wrong.

"Hugh," he said very quietly, "I think I see a problem."

Renaday quickly looked up from his sketch pad.

"Me, too," he replied.

"Clearly…" But he did not finish his statement.

Both men heard a noise from outside the Abort. There were German voices raised, sharp-edged and insistent. Tommy reached across and seized the Canadian by the arm.

"Not a word," he said.

"Not until we can talk later."

"Bloody right. You got it," replied Renaday.

The two men then turned and walked from the latrine, stepping out into the chilled misty air, feeling the closeness of the smell and of what they'd seen drop away from them like so many droplets of moisture.

Fritz Number One was standing by the front door, strapped in strict attention. In his hand at his side was a camera with a flash attachment.

A foot or two away, a German officer stood.

He was of modest height and build and seemed slightly older than Tommy, perhaps closing on thirty, although it was difficult to tell for certain because war aged men differently.

His close-cropped thick hair was jet black, but tinged with premature gray around the temples, the same color as the leather trenchcoat he wore above a sharply pressed but slightly ill-fitted Luftwaffe uniform.

He had very pale skin, and on one cheek he sported a jagged red scar just beneath the left eye. He wore a thin, well-groomed beard, which surprised Tommy. He knew that naval officers in the German military often wore beards, but he'd never seen a flier with one, even a sparse one such as this officer maintained. He had eyes that seemed knifelike, slicing their gaze forward.

The officer turned slowly toward the two kriegies, and Tommy saw that he was also missing his left arm.

The German paused, then asked: "Lieutenant Hart? Flying Officer Renaday?"

Both men came to attention. The German returned their salutes.

"I am Hauptmann Heinrich Visser," he said. His English was smooth, accented only slightly, but tinged with a slight hissing sound. He looked at Renaday sharply.

"Did you fly a Spitfire, flying officer?" he asked abruptly.

Hugh shook his head.

"Blenheim," he replied.

"Second seat."

Visser nodded.

"Good," he muttered.

"Does it make a difference?" Renaday demanded.

The German slid a small cruel smile across his face. When he did this, the scar seemed to change color slightly. And the smile was crooked.

He made a small gesture with his right hand toward his missing arm.

"A Spitfire took this," he said.

"He managed to come around behind me after I killed his wing man." He kept his voice even and controlled.

"Forgive me," he added, still pacing each word carefully.

"We are all imprisoned by our misfortunes, are we not?"

Tommy thought this a philosophical question better suited for a dinner table and a fine bottle of wine, or a rich liqueur, than standing outside a latrine and in the gory presence of a murdered body. He did not say this out loud. Instead, he asked: "You are, I believe, Hauptmann, to be some sort of a liaison? Exactly what duties does this include?"

Hauptmann Visser relaxed, shuffling his feet momentarily in the muddy earth. He did not sport the riding boots that the commandant and his assistants preferred. Instead, he wore more utilitarian, but highly polished, black boots.

"I am to witness all aspects of the situation, then make a report back to my superiors. We are bound by the Geneva Convention to account for the well-being of every Allied prisoner of war in our possession. But here, now, I am merely in charge of having the remains removed. Then perhaps it will be possible for us to, how do you say? Compare our findings? At a later juncture."

Hauptmann Visser turned toward Fritz Number One.

"This soldier was providing you with a camera?"

Hugh stepped forward.

"It is customary in a murder investigation to take photographs of the body and of the crime scene location. That is why we demanded Fritz obtain the camera for us."

Visser nodded.

"Yes, this is true…"

He smiled. Tommy's first impression was that the Hauptmann seemed a dangerous man. His tone of voice seemed gentle and accommodating, but his eyes told a different tale.

"But only in a routine situation. This situation, alas, is decidedly not routine. Photographs could be smuggled out of the camp. Used for propaganda purposes. I cannot permit this."

He reached out his hand for the camera.

Tommy thought Fritz Number One was ready to pass out.

His chest was drawn up, his spine rigid, his face pale. If he had dared to even take a breath of air in the Hauptmann presence, Tommy Hart had been unaware. The ferret immediately thrust the camera forward to the officer.

"I did not think, Herr Hauptmann" Fritz Number One started.

"I was told to assist the officers…"

Visser cut him off with a laconic wave.

"Of course, corporal. You would not see the danger in the same way that I might."

He turned back to the two Allied airmen.

"That, precisely, is why I'm here."

Visser coughed, a dry, gentle sound. He turned, gesturing to one of the armed soldiers still ringing the Abort. He handed this man the camera.

"See that it is returned to its owner," he said. The guard saluted, draped the camera's strap over his shoulder, and returned to his sentry position. Then Visser removed a package of cigarettes from his breast pocket. With surprising dexterity, he extricated one from the pack, returned the remainder to his pocket, and produced a steel lighter, which immediately flickered with flame.

He took a long drag on the cigarette, then looked up, one eyebrow slightly raised: "You have completed your inspection?"

Tommy nodded.

"Good," the German said.

"Then the corporal will accompany you to see your…" he hesitated, then, still smiling, said, "your charge. I will complete matters here."

Tommy Hart thought for a second, then whispered to the Canadian: "Hugh, stay here. Keep as close a watch on the Hauptmann as you can. And find out what he does with Bedford's body."

He looked over at the German.

"I think it would be critical to have a physician examine Captain

Bedford's remains. So that at least we can be certain of the medical aspects of this case."

"Damn right," Hugh said in an almost whisper.

"No photos. No doctor. That's bloody-all fucked."

Hauptmann Visser shrugged, not acknowledging the Canadian's obscenity, though he surely heard it.

"I do not think this would be practical, given the difficulties of our current situation. Still, I will examine the body carefully myself, and if I think your request is warranted, I will send for a German physician."

"An American would be better. Except we don't have one."

"Doctors make poor bombardiers."

"Tell me, Hauptmann, do you have knowledge in criminal investigations?

Are you a policeman, Hauptmann? What do you call it? Kriminalpolizei?"

Tommy threw the questions across the dirt ground.

Visser coughed again. He raised his face, still smiling crookedly.

"I look forward to our next meeting, lieutenant. Perhaps we will be able to speak at greater length at that point. Now, if you will excuse me, there appears much to do and not much time to accomplish it."

"Very good, Herr Hauptmann," Tommy Hart said briskly.

"But I have ordered Flying Officer Renaday to remain behind and personally witness your removal of Captain Bedford's remains."

Visser's eyes darted at Tommy Hart. But his face wore the same accommodating smile. He hesitated, then said:

"As you wish, lieutenant."

With that, the German stepped up, passed Tommy, and headed into the

Abort. Renaday hurried after him. Fritz Number One waved wildly, now that the officer was out of sight, for Tommy to follow him, and the two men set off across the camp again. The milling knots of kriegies still gathered on the parade ground let them pass. Behind him, Tommy Hart could hear the men murmur with questions and speculation, and perhaps the first few tones of anger.

There was a single guard clutching a Schmeisser machine pistol standing outside the door to cooler cell number six.

Tommy thought the man young, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. And although he stood at attention, the guard seemed nervous, almost scared to be in such close proximity to the kriegies.

This was not all that uncommon, Tommy thought. Some of the newer and younger, less experienced guards arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen so propagandized about the Terrorfliegers-terror-fliers, according to the constant harangue of Nazi broadcasters-in the Allied armies that they believed the kriegies all to be bloodthirsty savages and cannibals. Of course. Tommy knew that the Allied air war was admittedly one that was predicated upon the twin concepts of savagery and terror. Night and day incendiary raids on the populated centers of the cities could hardly be considered something different. So he guessed that the unsettling thought of coming into close contact with a black Terrorflieger kept the teenager's finger dancing around the trigger of the Schmeisser.

The young guard wordlessly stepped aside, pausing only to unbolt the door, and Tommy stepped past him into the cell.

The walls and floor were a dull gray concrete. There was a single overhead bare lightbulb and a solitary window up in the corner of the six by nine room. It was dank, and seemed a good ten degrees colder inside the cell than outdoors, even on the overcast, rainy day.

Lincoln Scott had been sitting in a corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, across from the sole piece of furniture in the cell, a crusted metal pail for waste. He stood up rapidly as Tommy entered the room, not exactly coming to attention, but certainly close to it, rigid and stiff.

"Hello, lieutenant," Tommy said briskly, almost officiously.

"I tried to introduce myself to you the other day…"

"I know who you are. What the hell is going on?" Lincoln Scott demanded sharply. His feet were bare and he wore only pants and blouse. There was no sign in the cell of either his sheepskin flight jacket or boots, and he must have had to fight to prevent himself from shivering.

Tommy hesitated.

"Haven't you been told " Scott interrupted.

"I haven't been told a damn thing! I'm pulled out of formation and hustled into the commandant's office sometime this morning. Major Clark and Colonel MacNamara demand I hand over my jacket and boots. Then they question me for a half-hour about how much I hate that cracker bastard Bedford. After that, they asked me a couple of questions about last night, and then the next thing I know, I'm being escorted into this delightful place by a couple of Kraut goons. You're the first American I've seen since this morning's session with the colonel and the major. So, Lieutenant Hart, please tell me what in the hell is going on!"

Scott's voice was a mingling of restrained fury and confusion.

Tommy was taken aback.

"Let me get this straight," he said slowly.

"You haven't been informed by the major…"

"I told you, Hart. I haven't been told a thing about anything! And what the hell am I doing in here? Under guard." "Vincent Bedford was murdered last night."

Scott's mouth opened and his eyes widened for an instant, before narrowing and fixing Tommy Hart with an unwavering gaze.

"Murdered? Here?"

"Major Clark informs me that you will be charged with this crime."

"Me?"

"Correct."

Scott leaned back against the cement wall, almost as if he'd been struck by a steady, surprise blow. The black flier took a deep breath, steadied himself, and once again stood ramrod straight.

"I've been assigned to help you prepare a defense to the charge." Tommy hesitated, then added, "And I must warn you that they consider this to be a capital offense."

Lincoln Scott nodded slowly before he replied. His shoulders were thrust back. His eyes fixed on Tommy Hart. He spoke slowly, deliberately, his voice slightly raised, as if he could weight each word with a passion that reached beyond the cement walls of the cooler cell, avoided the guard and his automatic weapon, and traveled past the rows of huts, over the wire, beyond the woods, and all the way across Europe to freedom.

"Mr. Hart…" he said, each word echoing in the small room, "if you believe nothing else, believe this: I did not kill Vincent Bedford. I may have wanted to. But I did not."

Lincoln Scott took another deep breath.

"I am innocent," he said.