Hart’s War

Chapter Four

Tommy was momentarily taken aback by the forcefulness of Lincoln Scott's denial. He realized he must have looked astonished because the black flier immediately burst out:

"What's the matter. Hart?"

Tommy shook his head.

"Nothing."

"Liar," Scott snorted.

"What was it that you expected me to say, lieutenant? That I killed the racist bastard?"

"No…"

"Then what?"

Tommy took a slow breath, organizing his thoughts.

"I didn't know what you would say. Lieutenant Scott. I hadn't really considered the overall question of your guilt or innocence yet. Only that you are about to be charged with a crime."

Scott exhaled sharply, and took a few steps around the tiny cooler cell, shrugging his shoulders against the damp cold.

"Can they do that?" he demanded suddenly.

"Do what?"

"Charge me with a crime. Here…" He swung his arm around as if encompassing the entirety of the prisoner-of-war camp."

"Yes, I believe so. We are technically still under the command of our own officers and members of the army and therefore subject to military discipline. I suppose, technically, you would argue that we are in a combat situation, and consequently controlled by the special regulations that imply…"

Scott shook his head.

"It doesn't make sense," he said briskly.

"Unless you're black. And then it makes perfectly reasonable sense.

Goddamn it! What the hell did I ever do to them? What conceivable evidence could they have?"

"I don't know. All I know is that Major Clark said there was ample evidence to convict you."

Scott snorted again.

"Crap," he said.

"How can there be any evidence when I had nothing to do with the cracker sobs death? And how did it happen, anyway?"

Tommy started to answer, then stopped himself.

"Why don't we talk about you first," he said slowly.

"Why don't you tell me what happened last night."

Scott pushed his back up against the gray cement cooler wall, staring up toward the tiny window for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he blew out slowly, turned his gaze on Tommy, and shrugged.

"There's not much to tell," he said.

"After the afternoon count, I walked a bit. Then I ate alone. I read in my bunk until the Krauts turned off the lights. I rolled over and went to sleep. I woke up once in the middle of the night. Needed to take a leak, so I got up, lit a candle, and went down to the toilet. I did my business, returned to the bunk room, climbed back into the sack, and didn't wake up until the Germans started whistling and shouting.

Next thing I knew, I was in here. Like I told you."

Tommy tried to imprint every word on his memory. He wished he'd at least brought a notepad and pencil with him, and cursed himself for his forgetfulness. He promised himself he would not make that mistake again.

"Did anyone see you? When you awoke?"

"How would I know?"

"Well, was anyone else in the toilet?"

"No."

"What were you doing there, that late?"

"I told you…"

"Nobody wakes up and starts walking around in the middle of the night, not here, not now, unless they're sick or they can't sleep because they're afraid of having nightmares.

Maybe back at home you might, but not here. So, which was it?"

Scott smiled briefly, but not at something he found amusing.

"Not exactly a nightmare," he replied.

"Unless you consider my situation a nightmare, which, of course, is a distinct possibility. More an accommodation."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Hart," Scott began slowly, making each word clear and distinct.

"We aren't supposed to be outside after dark. Verboten, right? Krauts might use you for target practice. Of course, guys still do it. Sneak out, dodge the ferrets and the searchlights, slip into the other huts.

The tunnel guys and the escape committee, they like to work at night.

Clandestine, hush-hush meetings and secret work crews. But no one's supposed to know who they are and where they're working. Well, in a way, I'm sort of a highly specialized tunnel rat, myself."

"I don't get it."

"Of course you don't get it. I wouldn't expect you to," Scott said with barely restrained anger. Then he continued, speaking slowly, as if explaining something to a recalcitrant child.

"White guys don't like sharing a toilet with a black man. Not everybody, of course. But enough. And those that don't like it, well, they take this very personally. For example, Captain Vincent Bedford.

He took it extremely personally."

"What did he say?"

"He said to find another place. Of course, there isn't another place, but that small detail didn't seem to bother him much."

"How did you reply?"

Lincoln Scott laughed sharply.

"I didn't. Other than to tell him to go screw himself." Scott took a deep breath, watching Tommy's face.

"Maybe this comes as a surprise to you. Hart? Have you ever been down South? They like things separate down there. White toilets and colored toilets. Anyway, if I go outside, try to use the Abort, I could get shot by some trigger-happy Kraut. So, what do I do? Wait until everyone's asleep, especially that redneck bastard, and I can't hear anybody moving in the corridor, and that's when I go. Quiet as can be. A secret piss, I suppose. At least a piss that doesn't draw too much attention. A piss that avoids all the Vincent Bedfords in this camp. That's why I was up in the middle of the night and sneaking around."

Tommy nodded.

"I see," he said.

Scott turned to him angrily, thrusting his face directly in front of

Tommy's. His eyes were narrowed, each word he spoke freighted with rage.

"You don't see a thing!" he hissed.

"You have no idea who I am! You don't have any idea what I've been through to get here! You are ignorant and unaware, Hart, just like everybody else! And I don't imagine that you have any real inclination to learn."

Tommy took a single step backward, then stopped. He could feel an anger of a different sort rising within him, and he returned Lincoln

Scott's words with a thrust of his own.

"Maybe I don't," he said coldly.

"But right now I'm the only thing standing between you and a firing squad. You might be smart to keep that in mind."

Scott turned away, suddenly facing the cement wall. He lowered his forehead to the damp surface, then raised his hands to the smooth cement, so that he seemed to be balancing there, as if his feet weren't on solid ground, but instead gripping the narrowest of tightropes.

"I don't need any help," he said quietly.

Still reverberating inwardly with an ill-defined rage. Tommy's first inclination was to tell the black flier that was fine with him, and walk out. He was perfectly happy returning to his books, his friends, and the routine of camp life he'd created for himself, simply letting each minute collect inexorably into an hour, and then add up into another day. Waiting for someone else to bring his imprisonment to a conclusion. A conclusion that held out the possibility of life, when so much that had happened to him had promised him death. He thought sometimes that he'd somehow managed to bluff his way to a pot in some uniquely deadly poker game, and having swept his winnings, even as meager as they were, into his arms, that he was unwilling to gamble again. Not even willing to look at a new hand of cards dealt to him.

He had reached a most curious and unexpected position in life. He lived surrounded by a world where there was danger and threat in almost any action, no matter how simple or inconsequential.

But by doing nothing, by remaining perfectly still and unnoticed on the small island of Stalag Luft Thirteen, he could survive. Like whistling past a graveyard. He started to open his mouth to tell Scott this, then stopped himself.

He took a deep breath, holding the air in his lungs.

Tommy thought in that second that it was the most curious of things: Two men could be standing next to each other, breathing the same air, but one could taste the future and freedom in each whiff, while the other could sense nothing but bitterness and hatred. And fear, as well, he considered, because fear is the cowardly brother of hatred.

And so, instead of telling Lincoln Scott to screw himself, Tommy replied, in as quiet a voice as the black flier had just used: "You are mistaken."

Scott did not move, but asked, "Mistaken, how?"

"Because everyone here in this camp needs help to some degree or another, and at the moment, you need it far more than anyone else."

Scott remained silent, listening.

"You don't have to like me," Tommy said.

"You don't even have to respect me. You can hate me, for all it matters. But right now, you need me. And we will get along much better if you understand that."

Scott remained pensive for several long seconds, before finally speaking. He still kept his head to the wall, but his words were distinct.

"I'm cold, Mr. Hart. I'm very cold. This place is freezing, and it's all I can do to keep my teeth from chattering. How about that for starters: Can you help me get something warm to put on?"

Tommy nodded.

"Do you have any spare clothing, other than what they took from you this morning?"

"No. Just what I was shot down with."

"No extra socks or a sweater from home?"

Lincoln Scott laughed sharply, as if this was ridiculous.

"No."

"Then I'll get some from somewhere else."

"I would appreciate it."

"What size shoes?"

"Twelve. But I'd prefer my flight boots back."

"I'll work on that. And the jacket too. Have you eaten?"

"The Krauts gave me a hunk of stale bread and a cup of water this morning."

"All right. Food, too. And blankets."

"Can you get me out of here, Mr. Hart?"

"I will try. No promises."

The black flier turned from the wall and eyed Tommy with an unwavering gaze. Tommy thought that it was probably the same narrowing of focus that Lincoln Scott used when he fixed a German fighter in the sight of his Mustang's machine guns.

"Make a promise. Hart," Scott said.

"It won't hurt you.

Show me what you can do."

"All I can tell you is that I'll do my best. I'll go talk to MacNamara after I leave here. But they're worried…"

"Worried? About what?"

Tommy hesitated, then shrugged.

"They used the words riot and lynching, lieutenant. They were afraid that friends of Vincent Bedford might want to avenge his death before they've convened their court and heard evidence and rendered a verdict."

Scott nodded slowly. He smiled wryly.

"In other words, they would prefer to have their own lynching, but in their own time, and to make it all look as official as possible."

"It would seem that way. My job is to prevent it from happening quite the way they want."

"I shouldn't expect this will make you too popular," Scott said.

"Let's not worry about that. Let's stick to the case."

"What is their case?"

"That's my next task. To find out."

Scott paused, breathing hard, almost like a man who'd just sprinted a race.

"Do what you can, Mr. Hart," he said slowly.

"I don't want to die here. Don't get me wrong about that. But if you ask me, whatever you do won't make a damn bit of difference, because my guess is that minds are already made up, and a verdict already rendered. Verdict. What a stupid word, Hart.

What a truly stupid word. Do you know it comes from the Latin: to speak the truth. What a crock. What a lie. What a goddamn lie."

Tommy did not respond to this.

Scott suddenly looked down at his hands, turning them over, as if searching them, or inspecting the color.

"It has never made a difference, Hart, do you understand?

Never!" Scott's voice rose sharply.

"Goddamn never! Black is guilty, no matter what. It's always been like that. Maybe it will always be that way."

Scott ran his hand over the brown wool of his service blouse.

"We all thought this might make it different. This uniform.

Every last goddamn one of us. Guys die. Hart. They die hard and some die horribly, but their last thoughts are of home and making a difference for everyone they're leaving behind.

What a lie."

"I'm going to do my best," Tommy said again, but then stopped, realizing that whatever he said would sound pathetic.

Scott hesitated again, then he slowly turned his back.

"I appreciate your help," he said.

"Whatever you can manage." The resignation in the black flier's voice implied that not only did he have no expectations of help, but that he doubted that any, if delivered, would have any impact.

Both men were quiet for a moment, before Scott said bitterly:

"You know what's funny. Hart? I got shot down on April first. April first, nineteen forty-four. April Fool's Day. I got one of the Nazi bastards and my wingman got another and we had run out of ammo before the bastards jumped us. The two guys we shot down never managed to bail out. Two confirmed kills. I thought the joke was on them, but it would appear I am mistaken. Joke's on me. Maybe they did get me, after all."

Tommy Hart was about to ask a question, anything to keep the black flier talking, when he heard footsteps and voices entering the cooler corridor, beyond the thick wooden door of the cell. Both men turned at the sound of the door being unlocked and swinging open.

Four men entered the cell, crowding along the wall.

Colonel MacNamara and Major Clark stood to the front, while Hauptmann

Heinrich Visser and a corporal with a stenographer's pad hung to the rear. The two American officers returned salutes, then Clark took a single step forward.

"Lieutenant Scott," he said, briskly, "it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that you are officially being charged with the premeditated murder of Captain Vincent Bedford of the United States Army Air Corps on this day, the twenty-second of May, nineteen forty-four…"

Visser quietly translated for the stenographer, who scribbled furiously.

"… As you have been made aware, I'm certain, by your counsel, this is a capital offense. If you are convicted, the court will either sentence you to be held in isolation until such time as U.S. military authorities can take charge of your person, or it may order your immediate execution, which our captors will perform. A preliminary session with the court has been scheduled for two days from today. You may enter a plea at that time."

Clark saluted and stepped back.

"I have done nothing!" Lincoln Scott burst out.

Tommy came to attention and spoke out sharply: "Sir, Lieutenant Scott denies totally having any connection whatsoever with the killing of

Captain Bedford! He unequivocally states his innocence, sir! He also requests the return of his personal items and his immediate release into camp population."

"Out of the question," Clark replied.

Tommy Hart turned toward Colonel MacNamara.

"Sir!

How is Lieutenant Scott expected to prepare his defense to these erroneous charges from a cooler cell? This is completely unfair.

Lieutenant Scott remains innocent until he is proven to be guilty, sir.

Back home, even with the seriousness of the charges, he would still only be confined to barracks pending the trial. I'm asking nothing more."

Clark turned to MacNamara, who seemed to be considering the request.

"Colonel, you can't… Who knows what trouble we would have? I think it best for all concerned if Lieutenant Scott remains here, where he is safe."

"Safe until you arrange a firing squad, major," Scott muttered.

MacNamara glared at the two lieutenants. He held up his hand.

"That's enough," he said.

"Lieutenant Hart, you are fundamentally correct. It is important that we maintain all available military rules. However, this is a special situation."

"Special, my ass," Scott said, glaring at the commanding officer.

"Just typical Jim Crow justice."

"Watch your tongue when speaking to a superior officer!"

Clark shouted. He and Scott snarled at each other.

Tommy stepped forward.

"Sir! Where can he go? What can he do? We're all still prisoners here."

MacNamara paused, clearly pondering his alternatives.

His face was flushed red and his jaw set, as if he was struggling with the legitimacy of the request weighed against the insubordination of the black flier. MacNamara took a deep breath and finally spoke in a low, controlled voice.

"All right, Lieutenant Hart. Lieutenant Scott will be released into your custody after tomorrow morning's count. One night in the cooler,

Scott. I will need to make an announcement to the camp, and we will need to clear a room for him. Alone. I won't have him in routine contact with any other men. During this time, he will be confined to the immediate area of his barracks unless he is in your presence and engaged in legitimate defense inquiries. I have your word on this?"

"Absolutely." It was not lost on Tommy that this arrangement was more or less exactly what Vincent Bedford had wanted. Before he'd been murdered.

"Scott, I need your word, as well," MacNamara hissed, then added, "As an officer and a gentleman, of course."

Lincoln Scott continued to glare at the colonel and the major.

"Of course…" he said.

"As an officer, and a gentleman.

You have my word." He snapped off his reply.

"Very good, then we will-" "Sir," Tommy interrupted.

"Lieutenant Scott's personal items, sir! When will they be returned to him?"

Major Clark shook his head.

"They won't be. Find something new for him to wear, lieutenant, because the next time you see his shoes and his jacket will be at trial."

"Why is that, sir?" Hart asked.

"Because both items are covered with Vincent Bedford's blood," Major Clark replied with a sneer.

Neither Lincoln Scott nor Tommy Hart replied to this announcement.

In the corner of the cooler cell the German stenographer's scratching pen finally paused after Heinrich Visser translated the final few words.

The late afternoon sky had darkened, and a light, cold rain was falling when Tommy exited the cooler block. The sky above his head promised nothing but more of the same. He hunched his shoulders and turned up his jacket collar and hurried toward the gate to the American compound.

He spotted Hugh Renaday waiting for him, his back up against the exterior wall of Hut 111. Hugh was smoking furiously-Tommy saw him finish one cigarette and light a new one off the butt of the old-and staring up into the sky.

"At home, the spring is always late, just like this," Hugh said quietly.

"Just when you think it will finally get warm and summer will come racing in, it will snow. Or rain. Or something."

"Vermont's the same," Tommy said.

"No one calls it spring. We call it mud season. The time between winter and summer. A slimy, slippery, useless, messy pain in the ass interlude."

"More or less what we have here," Hugh said.

"More or less." Both men smiled.

"What did you learn from our infamous client?"

"He denies having anything to do with the murder. But-" "Ah, Tommy, but is a terrible word," Hugh interrupted.

"Why is it that I doubt I'm going to like what I'm about to hear?"

"Because when MacNamara and Clark waltzed in to announce that formal charges were being prepared, Clark blurted out that Vincent Bedford's blood is on both Scott's boots and his jacket. I presume that's what he meant earlier when he said they had enough evidence to convict him."

Hugh released his breath slowly.

"That's a problem," he said.

"Blood on the boots and a bloody boot mark in the Abort. Bloody hell…"

"It gets a little worse." Tommy spoke softly.

Hugh snorted, slightly wide-eyed.

"Worse?"

"Yes. Lincoln Scott was in the habit of leaving his bunk in the middle of the night to use the toilet. Sneaking out of the bunk room to the latrine so that he wouldn't offend the sensibilities of whatever white officers didn't want to share a toilet with a black man. He did this last night, conveniently lighting a candle to find his way."

Hugh slumped back against the building.

"And the problem is…" he started.

"The problem is," Tommy continued, "someone probably did see him. So at some point during the night, he's absent from the bunk room and there's a witness somewhere in the camp who will testify to that. Clark will argue that was when the opportunity for murder arose."

"That could have been the most dangerous piss he's ever taken."

"I was thinking the same."

"Have you explained this to Scott?"

"No. I would not say our first meeting went particularly smoothly."

Hugh looked quizzically at his friend.

"No?"

"No. Lieutenant Scott has, shall we say, little confidence in his chances for justice."

"What did he " "He believes that minds are already made up. He may be correct."

"Bloody right about that, I'd say," Renaday muttered.

Tommy shrugged.

"We'll see. So, what did you find out?

Especially about Visser. He seems…"

"A little different from other Luftwaffe officers?"

"Yes."

"My impression as well. Tommy. Especially after watching him in that

Abort. The man has been to more than one crime scene, I'll wager. He went through the place like some sort of damnable archaeologist. There wasn't a square inch of that place that he didn't eyeball. He didn't say a word. Didn't even acknowledge my presence, except for one time, and that took me by surprise."

"What did he say?"

"He pointed down at the boot print stared at it for a good sixty seconds, like it was some speech he was trying to memorize, then he lifts up his head, looks over at me standing there, and he says,

"Flying officer, I might suggest you take a piece of paper and trace this as best you can." I bloody well took his suggestion. In fact, I made a couple of sketches.

Made some maps of the location of the body and the layout of the Abort.

I did a quick drawing of Bedford's body, showing the wounds. Tried to put in as much detail as possible. Actually, ran out of paper, and

Visser ordered one of the goons to go get me a brand-new pad from the commandant's office. It might come in handy in the days to come."

"Curious," Tommy said.

"It was like he was trying to help."

"Seemed that way. Which I wouldn't trust for one damn second."

Tommy thrust his back up against the hut. The small roof overhang kept the misting rain off their faces.

"Did you see what I saw in the Abort?" Tommy asked.

"Think so."

"Vic wasn't killed in the Abort. I don't know where he was killed, but it wasn't there. That's where he was put by somebody or somebodies.

But not killed."

"That's what I thought," Hugh said briskly, smiling.

"Sharp eyes. Tommy. What I saw was some blood on Trader Vic's blouse but not on those naked thighs. And none on the Abort seat or on the floor around him. So where's all the blood? Man gets his throat cut, ought to be blood jolly well everywhere. I took a closer look at the wound in the neck, too. Right after Visser did. Visser reached down with that single hand and like he was some sort of scientist, wipes away some of the blood, and measured with his fingers the slice in Trader Vic's throat. The jugular is cut, all right. But the slice sort of stops after no more than a couple of inches. Two inches, maximum.

Maybe even a little less. Visser doesn't say a word, but he turns to me holding his thumb and index finger apart like so."

Renaday held up his hand, demonstrating.

"And then there's the little matter of Vic's nearly severed finger and cut marks on the hands…"

"As if he was fighting back against someone with a knife."

"Right-o, Tommy. Defensive wounds."

Tommy nodded.

"A crime scene that isn't a crime scene. A Kraut who seems to be helping the wrong side. I'd say we have a few questions."

"True enough, Tommy. Questions are good. Answers are bloody well better. You saw MacNamara and Clark. Do you think it will be sufficient merely to throw doubts all over their case?"

"No."

"Neither do I." Hugh lit another cigarette, staring at the smoke that curled from his lips, and then looking at the glowing tip.

"Before we got shot down, Phillip liked to say that these things will kill us, sooner or later. Maybe so. But it seems to me that they're about fifth or sixth on the current list of deadly threats. Far behind the Germans, or maybe getting deathly sick. Or I don't know what else.

And right now, I'm wondering if maybe there aren't a few other items we could add to the list of deadly possibilities. Like ourselves."

Tommy nodded, as he reached into his own pocket and pulled out a package of smokes.

"Tell Phillip everything," he said.

"Don't leave out a detail."

Hugh smiled.

"He'd line me up at dawn and shoot me himself if I did. Poor old sod's probably pacing back and forth in the bunk room now, behaving for all the world like some overeager child on Christmas eve." He finished his cigarette and flicked it out onto the ground.

"Well, I'd better get going before he swoons from unchecked anticipation and curiosity.

Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow you meet Lieutenant Scott. Bring that famous policeman's eye to bear, will you?"

"Of course. Although it might be a damn sight easier for me if he was a lumberjack. And a drunken one, at that."

When he walked into the bunk room where Trader Vic had lived. Tommy was greeted with a dank silence and glares. The six remaining kriegies were packing their meager possessions together, readying themselves to move. Blankets; thin, scratchy German-issue sheets; whatever extra clothing the men had acquired; cooking utensils; and Red Cross foodstuffs were being gathered in piles on the floor. Men were also taking the hay-stuffed pallets off the bunks and folding them over for transport.

Tommy walked over to Lincoln Scott's space. He saw the Bible and Gibbons’ Fall on a makeshift wooden table constructed from a trio of parcel boxes. Inside the top box was Scott's stash of foodstuffs all the tinned meats and vegetables, condensed milk, coffee, sugar, and cigarettes that the black flier had accumulated. He also had a small metal church key for opening the tins, and he'd fashioned himself a metal frying pan, using the steel lid from a German waste barrel, attaching a flattened handle that was also steel to the lid by jamming the handle into a small slice on the lid surface.

Scott had wrapped an old, tattered cloth around the handle to serve as a grip. Tommy admired the construction of the frying pan. In it, Lincoln Scott displayed typical kriegie ingenuity.

The energy to make something out of nothing was the one thing all the prisoners held in common.

For a moment, Tommy stood by the bunk, staring at the meager collection of possessions. He was struck in that second by the limits to what all the kriegies had. The clothes on their backs, some food, some tattered books. They were all poor.

Then he turned away from Scott's items. Across the room two men were sorting through a wooden chest. The chest itself was an unusual sight.

It had clearly been constructed by a carpenter who'd spent time on making the edges fit securely, and sanding the surfaces to a polished sheen. Vincent Bedford's name, rank, and dog tag number were carved in the blond wood in an ornate script. The two men were busily separating foodstuffs from clothing. And, to Tommy's surprise, he saw one of the men remove a thirty-five-millimeter Leica camera from amid the clothing.

"Is that Vic's stuff?" he asked. A foolish question, because the answer was obvious.

There was silence for a couple of seconds, before one of the men replied: "Who else?"

Tommy approached closely. One of the men was folding a dark blue sweater. It was a thick, closely knit wool. German naval issue. Tommy thought. He had seen a sweater like that only once before, and that was on the body of a U-boat crewman that had washed ashore in North Africa not far from their base. The Arabs who had discovered the sailor's body and transported it to the Americans in hope of payment had fought hard over the sweater. It was extremely warm, and the natural oils of the wool repelled moisture. At Stalag Luft Thirteen, in the midst of the harsh Bavarian winter, the sweater would have been a valuable commodity to shivering kriegies.

Tommy continued to gaze over the assembled riches. He had to stop himself from whistling in appreciation of Trader Vic's hoard. He counted over twenty cartons of cigarettes alone. In a camp where cigarettes were often the preferred currency of trade and barter, Bedford was a millionaire many times over.

"There has to be a radio," he said after a moment.

"And probably a good one, too. Where's that?"

One of the men nodded, but made no immediate reply.

"Where's the radio?" he asked again.

"None of your fucking business. Hart," the man sorting through the items muttered.

"It's hidden."

"What's going to happen to Vic's stuff?" Tommy wondered.

"What's it to you, lieutenant?" The other man working through the collection turned abruptly.

"I mean, why is it any of your business, Hart? Ain't you got enough to do with defending that murdering nigger?"

Tommy didn't reply.

"Asshole," one of the men blurted out.

"We ought to just shoot the bastard tomorrow."

"He says he didn't do it," Tommy said. This statement was greeted with hisses and a few snorts of near-rage.

The American flier kneeling in front of the chest held up his hand, as if to quiet the other men in the barracks room.

"Sure. Of course. That's what he says. What did you expect?

The boy had no friends and Vincent was popular with everybody.

And they sure as hell didn't like each other none too much right from the first minute, and after they had that fight, the boy probably figured he'd better get Vic before Vic got him. Just like a goddamn dogfight, lieutenant. I mean, what are fighter pilots trained to do?

There's only one absolute, essential, can't be broken goddamn rule for fighter pilots: Shoot first!"

There was a murmur of assent from the other airmen in the room.

The flier looked over at Tommy. He continued speaking in a level, taut voice, filled with anger: "Have you ever seen a Lufberry circle,

Hart?"

"A what?"

"A Lufberry circle. It's something you learn about on Day One of fighter training. Probably the Luftwaffe learns about it on their first day of training in 109s, too."

"I was always in bombers."

"Well," the pilot continued, still speaking bitterly, "a Lufberry circle is named after Raoul Lufberry, the First World War ace.

Basically it's this: Two fighters start following each other in an ever-tightening circle. Sort of round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chases the weasel. Only, who's chasing whom, huh? Maybe the damn weasel's chasing the monkey. Anyway, you get into a Lufberry circle and the fighter that manages to turn faster, inside the other, without either stalling out or losing consciousness, wins. The other dies. Simple. Nasty. That's a Lufberry circle and that's what

Vincent and the nigger were in. Only problem: The wrong guy won."

The man turned away.

"What's happening to Vic's stuff?" Tommy asked again.

Without turning, the pilot shrugged as he answered.

"The food? Well, Colonel MacNamara told us all to share it. Spread it about all over Hut 101. Maybe have one little feast, courtesy of Vic.

That'd be a good way of remembering him, wouldn't it? One night where no one in the whole damn hut goes to bed hungry. Anyway, the cigarettes are going to the escape committee, whoever the hell they are, who will use them for bribing the Fritzes or any other ferret that needs bribing. Same for the camera and the radio and most of the clothes. It's all being turned over to MacNamara and Clark."

"Is this everything?"

"This? Hell, no. Vic has a couple of secret stash spots around the camp. Probably two, maybe three times what you see here. Damn, Hart.

Vic was easygoing, too. Didn't mind sharing all his shit, you know what I mean? I mean, guys in this bunk ate better, weren't so fucking cold in the winter, and always had plenty of smokes. Hell, he took care of us, all right. Vic was gonna get us all through the war alive and in one piece, and the nigger you're gonna help took all that away from us."

The man rose, pivoting sharply, staring at Tommy Hart.

"MacNamara and Clark themselves come on in here, tell us to pack up, we're moving out. Gonna leave the nigger in here alone, 'cept maybe for you. Good thing, Hart. I don't think the black bastard would have made it to his fucking trial. Vic was one of us. Maybe even the best of us. At least the man knew who his friends were, and he watched out for them."

The flier paused, narrowing his gaze.

"Tell me, Hart. You know who your friends are?"

It was nearly dark by the time Tommy Hart managed to return to Scott's cooler cell. He'd talked one of his reluctant bunkmates out of a spare olive-colored turtleneck sweater the man had been sent from home. He'd also obtained a pair of size thirteen army-issue shoes from a modest stockpile kept by the kriegies in charge of distributing Red Cross parcels. The collection of clothes was supposed to go to men who arrived at the prisoner-of-war camp with their uniforms in tatters after having bailed out of stricken warplanes. He'd also taken two thin blankets from Scott's bunk, along with a tin of processed meat, some canned peaches, and half a loaf of nearly stale kriegsbrot. The guard outside the cooler cell seemed hesitant to allow the items inside until Tommy offered him a pair of cigarettes, and then he was waved ahead, Shadows already filled the cell, creeping in through the solitary window vent near the ceiling, making the cooler's air cold and gray. The stark overhead bulb was weak and dim and seemed defeated by the onset of night.

As before, Scott was hunched down in a corner. He rose stiffly as Tommy entered the cell.

"I did what I could," Tommy said, handing over the clothes.

Scott grabbed for them eagerly.

"Jesus," he said, tugging on the sweater and then the shoes, throwing a blanket across his shoulders and, almost in the same motion, grabbing for the can of peaches. He ripped open the lid and drained the sweet and sticky contents in a single gulp. Then he started to work on the tinned meat.

"Take your time, make it last," Tommy said quietly.

"It will fill you up better that way."

Scott paused, his fingers filled with a morsel of meat halfway to his mouth. The black flier considered what Hart had said and then nodded.

"That's right. But damn, Hart, I'm starved."

"Everyone's always hungry, lieutenant. You know that. The question is: To what degree? You say "I'm starved' back home, and all it means is that it's been maybe six hours since you ate last and you're ready to sit down and tuck in. Pot roast, maybe. With steamed vegetables and spring potatoes and lots of gravy. Or a pan-fried steak with french fries. And lots of gravy. Here, of course, "I'm starved' means something much closer to the truth, doesn't it? And if you were one of those poor Russian bastards that went marching by the other day, then, well, "I'm starved' to them would be even closer to reality, wouldn't it? It wouldn't just be a couple of words. A throwaway phrase. Not at all."

Scott paused again, this time chewing his bite of food slowly, deliberately.

"You are correct, Hart. And a philosopher as well."

"Stalag Luft Thirteen brings out the contemplative side of my nature."

"That's because the one thing we all have in abundance is time."

"That's true."

"Except, perhaps, for me," Scott said. Then he shrugged and managed a small smile.

"Fried chicken," he said quietly.

Then he laughed outward, a single burst.

"Fried chicken with greens and mashed potatoes. The typical black folks' Sunday afternoon at home after church with the preacher coming to dinner meal. But damn, cooked just right, with a little garlic in the potatoes and some pepper on the chicken to give it a little bite.

Cornbread on the side and with a cold beer or a glass of fresh lemonade to wash it all down…"

"And gravy," Tommy said. He closed his eyes for an instant.

"Lots of thick, dark gravy…"

"Yes. Lots of gravy. The type that's so thick, you can hardly pour it out of the container…"

"That you can stick a spoon in, and it'll stand upright."

Scott laughed a second time. Tommy offered him a cigarette, which the black flier took.

"These things are supposed to cut the appetite," he said, inhaling.

"I wonder if that's true."

Scott looked down at the empty tins.

"You think they'll give me a fried chicken dinner for my last meal?" he asked.

"I mean, isn't that traditional? Condemned man gets his choice before facing the firing squad."

"That's a ways off," Tommy said sharply.

"We aren't there yet" Scott shook his head fatalistically.

"Anyway, Hart, thanks for the food and the clothes. I'll try to pay you back."

Tommy took a deep breath.

"Tell me. Lieutenant Scott. If you didn't kill Vincent Bedford, who did? And why?"

Scott turned away. He blew a smoke ring up toward the ceiling, watching it waft back and forth and then dissipate in the gloom and growing darkness.

"I haven't the slightest idea," he answered sharply. He tugged the blanket draped around his shoulders tight to his body, then slowly lowered himself into the corner of the cooler, almost as if he were descending into a pool of still, dark waters.

Fritz Number One was waiting outside the cooler entrance to escort Tommy back into the American compound. The ferret was smoking, and shuffling his feet nervously. He tossed the half-smoked cigarette away when Tommy emerged from the cooler, which surprised him, because Fritz Number One was a true addict to tobacco, just like Hugh, usually burning the cigarettes down to their stubs before reluctantly discarding them.

"It is late, lieutenant," the ferret said.

"Lights out will be soon. You must be in your quarters."

"Let's go, then," Tommy said.

The two men marched deliberately toward the gate under the gaze of a pair of machine gunners in the nearest tower, and a Hundfuhrer and his dog that were readying themselves to check the perimeter. The dog barked once at Tommy before being hushed by its handler with a jerk on the glistening metal chain around its neck.

The gate creaked shut behind them and the two men continued wordlessly across the assembly ground, heading toward Hut 101. Tommy thought he would probably have more questions for Fritz Number One at some later point. But at this moment, he was mostly intrigued by the ferret's fast pace.

"We should hurry," the German said.

"What's the rush?" Tommy asked.

"No rush," Fritz replied, and then contradicting himself again, added,

"You must be in your bunk room. Quick."

The two men reached the alleyway between huts. The fastest route to

Hut 101 led down that way. But Fritz Number One grabbed Tommy by the arm, tugging him toward the outside of Hut 103.

"We should go this way," the ferret insisted.

Tommy stopped in his tracks. He pointed ahead.

"That's the right way," he said.

Fritz Number One pulled at his arm a second time.

"This way will be fast, too," he said.

Tommy looked oddly at the ferret, then down the near-black alleyway.

The searchlights had been turned on, and one swept over the top of the nearest hut. In the passing light, Tommy could see the misty rain and fog. Then he realized what was located at the end of the alleyway, just around the corner of the two huts and just beyond his sight line.

The Abort where Bedford's body was found.

"No," Tommy said abruptly.

"This is the way we're going."

He pulled his arm from Fritz Number One's grip with a jerk, and took off through the gloomy shadows and lurking darkness of the alleyway.

The ferret hesitated only a second before joining him.

"Please, Lieutenant Hart." He spoke quietly.

"I was told to take you the longer way."

"Told by whom?" Hart asked, continuing to march forward.

Both men were walking from darkness to darkness, their path illuminated only by weak light that crept from the interior of the huts, where the modest electricity was still functioning, and the occasional sweeping searchlight beam.

Fritz Number One did not answer, but he did not have to. Tommy Hart strode determinedly around the corner" and immediately saw three men standing outside the Abort. Hauptmann Heinrich Visser, Colonel

MacNamara, and Major Clark.

The three officers turned when Tommy appeared. MacNamara and Clark instantly looked angry, while Visser seemed to grin slightly.

"You're not authorized to be here," Clark blurted out.

Tommy came to attention, saluting stiffly.

"Sir! If this has something to do with the current case…"

"You are dismissed, lieutenant!" Clark said.

But as he said this, three German soldiers struggling to carry a long, dark rubberized sheet between them, emerged from the interior of the Abort. Tommy realized that Vincent Bedford's body was wrapped inside the sheet, shrouded from view. The three soldiers gingerly walked down the stairs and set the body down. Then they came to attention in front of Hauptmann Visser. He quietly gave an order in German, and the men lifted the body again. They carried it around the building corner and out of sight. At that moment, another German soldier appeared in the doorway to the Abort. This man was wearing a black butcher's-style apron and carried a soapy, dripping scrub brush in his hand. Visser barked another order to this soldier, who saluted, and then returned inside the Abort.

Clark then took a step forward, toward Tommy. His voice was narrow, pinched, and angry.

"I repeat: Lieutenant, you are dismissed!"

Tommy saluted again, and rapidly headed toward Hut 101.

He thought he'd seen several interesting things, not the least of which was the curious idea that it had taken over twelve hours to remove the murdered man's body from the location where it had been discovered. But more curious was that the Germans were cleaning the Abort. This was a task the kriegies routinely performed for themselves.

He stopped just outside the entrance to his hut, breathing hard. If there was any evidence remaining inside the Abort, it was gone now, he told himself. For a moment, he wondered whether Clark and MacNamara had seen what he and Hugh Renaday had: That Trader Vic's killing took place somewhere else. He wasn't certain about their abilities to read a scene like the one he'd investigated that morning.

But he was certain of one thing: Heinrich Visser had.

The question, he thought, was whether the German had shared his observations with the American officers.

By all rights, he should have been exhausted by the day, but the questions and confusions he had gathered in his consciousness kept him lying rigidly in his bunk long after the lights went out, and past when each of the other members of the room had slipped into their own fitful night's sleep. More than once he'd closed his eyes to the snores, the breathing sounds, and the darkness, only to see Vincent Bedford's body stuffed into the Abort stall, or Lincoln Scott huddled in the corner of the cooler cell. In an odd way, all the troublesome images from that day that kept him awake were refreshing, almost exhilarating. They were different, unique. There was an excitement attached to them that quickened his heart and his head. When he finally did drop away, it was with the pleasurable thought of the meeting in the morning that he expected to have with Phillip Pryce.

But it was not morning light that awakened him.

It was a rough hand, closing over his mouth.

He pitched directly from sleep into fear. He half-jerked up in the bunk, only to feel the pressure of the hand shoving him back down. He twitched, trying to rise, but then stopped, as he heard a voice hissing in his ear: "Don't move. Hart. Just don't move at all…"

The voice was soft, slithery. It seemed to sidle past the abrupt thudding of blood in his ears, the immediate racket of his heartbeat.

He lay back on the bed. The hand still covered his mouth.

"Listen to me, Yankee," the voice continued in a tone barely above a whisper.

"Don't look up. Don't turn around, just listen to me. And y'all won't get hurt. Can you do that?

Just nod your head."

Tommy nodded.

"Good," the voice said. Tommy realized that the man was kneeling by the side of the bunk, just behind his head, enveloped in darkness. Not even the occasional sliver of light from a passing searchlight sweep striking the exterior of the hut and penetrating past the window's wooden shutters helped him to see who was gripping him so tightly. He realized it was the man's left hand over his mouth. He did not know where the man's right hand was. And he did not know whether it held some sort of weapon.

Abruptly, he heard a second voice, whispering from the other side of the bunk. He was startled, and his body must have shaken slightly, because the grip across his mouth tightened even more.

"Ask him," the second voice demanded.

"Just ask him the question."

The man at his side grunted quietly.

"Tell me. Hart. Are you a good soldier? Can you follow orders?"

Tommy nodded again.

"Good," the voice whispered, hissing still.

"I knew it. Because, you see, that's all that we want you to do. All that's required of you. Just follow your orders. Now, do you remember what your orders are?"

He continued to nod.

"Your orders, Hart, are to help justice be done. No more.

No less. You'll do that, won't you, Hart? See that justice is done?"

He tried to speak, but the hand clamped across his mouth prevented him.

"Just nod your head again, lieutenant."

He nodded, as before.

"We're just making sure of that. Hart. Because no one wants to see justice avoided. You'll be absolutely certain that justice is done, won't you?"

Tommy did not move.

"I know you will," the voice hissed a final time.

"We all know you will. Everyone in this place…" Tommy could sense the man on his left moving away from the bunk over toward the bunk-room door.

"Don't turn. Don't speak. Don't light a candle. Just lie there,

Hart. And remember you only have one job ahead of you: just follow orders…" the man said. He squeezed painfully hard one time, then released his grip, before slinking away into the darkness. Tommy could hear the door creak open and then close. Gasping for breath like a fish suddenly plucked from the ocean, Tommy remained rigidly on his bed as he'd been told, the normal night sounds of the other men in the room slowly returning to his ears. But it was some time before his heart rate slowed from the deep drumming that pounded in his chest.