Hart’s War

Chapter Five

Tommy kept his mouth shut as the kriegies flooded from the huts for the morning Appell. The early sky had lightened slightly, turning from dull, metallic gray to a horizon of tarnished silver that held out the hope of clearing. It was not as cold as it had been the day before, but there was still an unpleasant dampness in the air. Around him, as always, men complained, men grumbled, men muttered obscenities, as they formed the usual five-deep rows and began the laborious process of being counted. Ferrets moved up and down the rows, calling out numbers in German, starting over and repeating themselves when they lost track or were distracted by some kriegie asking a question. Tommy listened carefully to every voice, straining hard to recognize in the snatches of words that flowed at him from the collected airmen the sounds of the two men who'd visited him in the night.

He stood at parade rest, pretending to be outwardly relaxed, trying to appear bored as he had for hundreds of similar mornings, but inwardly stretched taut with an unruly turmoil and an unfamiliar anxiety that, had he been slightly older and more worldly, he might have recognized as fear.

But it was a far different fear from the fear he and all the other kriegies were accustomed to, which was the universal fear of flying straight into a squall of tracer rounds and flak. He wanted to pivot around, to search the eyes of the men surrounding him in the formation, thinking suddenly that the two voices who'd arrived at his bunk side in the midnight of the camp would be watching him carefully now. He surreptiously shifted his eyes about, darting glances to the right and left, trying to pick out and identify the men who had told him that his job was simply to follow orders. He was surrounded, as always, by the men who flew in all the ships of war. In Mitchells and Liberators, Forts and Thunderbolts, Mustangs, Warhawks, and Lightnings.

Someone was watching him, but he did not know who.

The catcalls and complaints of that morning were the same as every morning. The ragged lines of U.S. airmen were no different from what they were any day-except for the two men absent. One dead. One in the cooler and accused of murder.

Tommy exhaled slowly and had to control himself to keep from twitching.

He could feel his heart accelerate, almost as fast as it did during the night when he'd been awakened by the hand closing over his mouth. He felt almost light-headed and his skin burned, especially his back, as if the eyes of the men he sought were scorching him.

The morning air he gasped at was cool, suddenly tasting to him like a smooth pebble plucked from the bottom of one of the trout streams of his home state, placed under his tongue on a hot day. He closed his eyes for a moment, envisioning fast, dark waters bubbling with white froth as they coursed through some narrow rapids on the Battenkill or the White River, waters that had fallen out of the crags of the Green Mountains, made by late-melting snow and racing toward the larger watersheds of the Connecticut or Hudson. The image calmed him.

He heard a ferret close by, grunting out numbers.

He opened his eyes and saw that they had nearly completed the count. He looked across the yard and, almost as if on cue, saw Oberst Von Reiter, accompanied by Hauptmann Heinrich Visser, emerging from the office building and making their way past the cordon of saluting camp guards through the front gate toward the assembled fliers. As always, Von Reiter was dressed with rigid precision, each crease of his immaculately tailored uniform slicing the air, and Tommy imagined that as he strode forward they made the same whistling sound as a sabre slashing the wind did. Visser, on the other hand, appeared slightly less neat, a little crumpled, almost as if he'd slept in his uniform the night before. The empty sleeve of his greatcoat was pinned together but still napped as he kept pace with the taller camp commandant.

Tommy watched the Hauptmann's eyes, and saw that as he approached, they were sweeping across the rows of kriegies, taking in and measuring the men as they came to attention.

He had the sensation that Visser looked on them with some anger that he concealed carefully but not totally. Von Reiter, Tommy thought, even with all his military bearing and Prussian appearance, like a caricature from a propaganda poster, remained nothing more than a glorified jailer. But Visser, he was the enemy.

Colonel MacNamara and Major Clark stepped from the formations to confront the two German officers. There was a quick exchange of salutes and whispered conversation, then MacNamara turned, took a step forward, and loudly addressed the assembly.

"Gentlemen!" MacNamara shouted. Any residual noise among the kriegies ended instantly. The men craned forward to hear the commanding officer speak.

"You are by now all aware of the despicable murder of one of our number. It is now time to end all the rumors, scuttlebutt, and loose talk that has surrounded this unfortunate event!"

MacNamara paused, waiting until his eyes rested on Tommy Hart.

"Captain Vincent Bedford will be interred with military honors at noon today in the burial ground behind Hut 119.

Shortly after that point, the man accused of his murder, Lieutenant

Lincoln Scott, will be released from the cooler into the custody of his counsel, Lieutenant Thomas Hart of Hut 101.

Lieutenant Scott will be confined to his quarters in that hut at all times, unless engaged in legitimate inquiries in preparation of his defense."

MacNamara swung his eyes away from Tommy and back to the rows of men.

"No one is to threaten Lieutenant Scott! No one is to speak with

Lieutenant Scott unless they have pertinent information to impart! He is under arrest and is to be treated that way! Do I make myself clear?"

This question was answered without a sound.

"Good," MacNamara continued.

"Lieutenant Scott will appear before a military court-martial tribunal for a preliminary hearing within twenty-four hours. His trial on the accusations is scheduled for next week."

MacNamara hesitated, then added: "Until that tribunal reaches a conclusion. Lieutenant Scott is to be treated with courtesy, respect, and total silence! Despite your feelings and the evidence already collected he shall be presumed to be not guilty until a military court determines otherwise! Any violation of this order will be dealt with harshly!"

The colonel had drawn himself up, shoulders back, legs spread his hands clasped behind his back. The force of his command was like an ocean wave flooding over the kriegies.

There wasn't even a grumble from the back of the ranks of men Tommy exhaled slowly. He thought it would have been hard for the Senior American Officer to make a statement to the camp that was more prejudicial. Even the words not guilty were spoken in a tone designed to imply the precise opposite.

He wanted to step forward out of the lines and say something in defense of Lincoln Scott, but bit his lip, reined in an urge he knew would help no one and might actually harm his case, and remained silent.

MacNamara waited for an instant, then swung toward the German officers.

They saluted Von Reiter as always lifting his leather riding crop to the brim of his cap, then snapping it down to his polished boots with a cracking sound.

Major Clark marched to the front of the formation, moving like a middleweight closing in on an injured opponent hanging from the ropes.

He faced the airmen, and bellowed:

"Dismissed!"

In silence, the kriegies dispersed across the compound.

Fritz Number One was nowhere to be found, which surprised Tommy, but one of the other ferrets was aware of the order allowing him to travel to the British portion of the camp, and after Tommy had plied him with a pair of cigarettes in order to tear him away from what the ferret considered the absolutely essential duty of crawling around and poking through the muddy dirt under Hut 121, escorted him through the gate, past the offices and the shower block and the cooler, and up to the North Compound.

Hugh Renaday was waiting just inside the barbed wire, pacing aggressively as was his style, circling around within a small space, smoking continuously. He stopped and waved as Tommy hurried toward him.

"Eager to get to it, counselor. Come on, Phillip's as excited as a hound in heat. He's got some ideas…"

Hugh stopped, in the midst of the rush of words, staring at his friend.

"Tommy, you look terrible. What's wrong?"

"Does it show all that much?" Tommy replied.

"Pale and drawn, my friend. Couldn't you sleep?"

Tommy managed a smile.

"More like someone didn't want me to sleep. Come on, I'll fill you and Phillip in at the same time."

Hugh clamped his mouth shut, nodded, and the two men quick-marched through the compound. Tommy smiled inwardly as he recognized one of his friend's better qualities.

Not too many men, when their curiosity is pricked, are able to instantly silence themselves and start scrutinizing details. It is a quality that borders on the taciturn, perhaps an angle off the reflective. Tommy wondered whether Hugh was as quietly efficient with both his observations and his emotions in the cockpit of a bomber.

Probably, he thought.

Phillip Pryce was in the bunk room he shared with Renaday, monkishly hunched over a rough-hewn wooden desk, scribbling notes on a sheet of writing paper, gripping a small needle of pencil tightly in his long patrician fingers. He looked up and coughed once hard, as the two men entered the room. A cigarette stub was perched on the end of the table, burning, ashes littering the planks of the floor below. Pryce smiled, looked around himself for the smoke, picked it up, and waved it in the air like a philharmonic conductor directing the crescendo of a symphony.

"Many ideas, my dear boys, many ideas…" Then he looked at Tommy more closely, and said, "Ah, but I see that more has happened in the space of a few short hours. And what new information do you have for us, counselor?"

"A little middle-of-the-night visit from what I took to be the Stalag

Luft Thirteen vigilante committee, Phillip. Or perhaps the local chapter of the K-u Klux Klan."

"You were threatened?" Renaday asked.

"No. More like I was reminded…" Tommy launched into a brief description of being awakened by the hand on his mouth. He discovered that merely by telling his two friends what had happened, some of the echoes of anxiety within him fled. But he was also smart enough to understand that the sensation of wellbeing was as false as perhaps his fear was.

He more or less decided to maintain a certain degree of wariness, some position between the two extremes of fear and safety. "

"Just follow orders'… that's what they told me," he said.

"Bastards," Hugh blurted.

"Cowards. We should take this directly to the SAO and " Phillip Pryce held up his hand, shutting his roommate off mid-complaint.

"First off, Hugh, my boy, we're not going to impart any information even of threats and intimidation to the opposition. Weakens us.

Stengthens them. Right?" He reached for another cigarette, replacing the one that he'd neglected.

He lit this, then blew out a long, narrow stream of smoke, which he watched as it hung in the air.

"Please, Tommy, if you will. A complete description of everything that you saw and did after Hugh left your side.

And, if you can, re-create every conversation word for word.

To the best of your memory…"

Tommy nodded. Taking his time, using every bit of recollection he had, he painstakingly retraced all his steps of the previous night. Hugh leaned up against a wall, arms crossed, concentrating, as if he were absorbing everything Tommy said. Pryce kept his eyes raised to the ceiling, and he leaned back on his chair, the wooden slats creaking as he rocked slightly.

When Tommy finished, he looked over at the older Englishman, who stopped rocking and leaned forward. For just an instant, the weak light filtering through the grimy window gave him a dark and shadowy appearance, like a man rising from bed after an intimacy with death.

Then, as abruptly, this cadaverous look dissipated, and the angular, almost academic appearance returned, accompanied by a wry and engaged smile.

"Yankee these nocturnal visitors called you, you say?"

"Yes."

"How intriguing. What an interesting choice of words. Did you detect any other obvious southernisms about their language?

A slow, sibilant drawl, perhaps, or some other, colorful contraction, like a y'all or an aren't that would support the geographical impression?"

"There was a y'all," Tommy replied.

"But they whispered.

A whisper can sometimes hide inflection and accent."

Pryce nodded.

"Most true. But the word Yankee does not, correct? It immediately leads one in a most obvious direction, true?"

"Yes. Another northerner would never use that word. Nor would someone from the Midwest or West."

"The word prompts assumptions. Draws one inevitably to conclusions.

Makes one think clearly in a certain' manner does it not?"

Tommy smiled at his friend.

"It does, indeed, Phillip. It does indeed. And what you're suggesting is?"

Pryce sneezed loudly, but looked up with a grin.

"Well," he said slowly, relishing each word as he launched himself forward.

"My experience is much the same as Hugh's. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it will be the unfortunate lumberjack who has committed the apparently clear-cut brutality.

Usually what is obvious is also true…"

He paused, still letting his smile wander around his face, curling up the corners of his mouth, lifting his eyebrows, crinkling his chin.

"… But there is always that one in a hundred situation.

And I distrust words and language that prompt one to conclusions instead of the more solid world of facts."

Pryce rose from his seat and moved across the room, as if abruptly driven by ideas. He opened a small chest made from an empty parcel box and removed tea and cups.

"Phillip," Tommy said, feeling a sense of relief for the first time that morning, "you sly dog. You're driving at something.

What is it?"

"No. No. Not quite yet," Pryce replied, almost cackling.

"I think I shall not speculate further until I know more. Tommy, my dear boy, throw another fagot on the stove, let us have tea. I have prepared some notes for you that should help you with procedural matters to come. I have also suggested some avenues of inquiry…"

Pryce hesitated, then added, instantly dropping the humor from the edges of his words, adopting a seriousness that weighted them in

Tommy's mind: "The next few hours will be critical, I suspect. More will happen that influences this case. Watch your client carefully when he is released. Hugh, rely on your own instincts. I think it would be wise for all of us if we could fix in our own minds a settled belief in Lieutenant Scott's denial."

Both men nodded. Pryce took a deep breath.

"Belief is an odd thing for a defense counsel, Tommy. It is not necessary to believe in your client to defend him. Some would say that it is easier to not truly have an opinion, that the maneuverings of the law are only clouded by the emotions of trust and honesty. But this situation is not one that lends itself, I think, to the usual interpretations. In our case, to defend Lieutenant Scott, I think you must subscribe wholeheartedly to his innocence, no matter how difficult he makes that achievement. Of course, with this belief goes greater responsibility.

His life will truly be in your hands."

Tommy nodded.

"I will search for the truth when I see him," he said, rather portentously, which caused Phillip Pryce to smile again, like a headmaster at a boys' school slightly bemused by the over eagerness but undeniable sincerity of his charges.

"I think we're some ways from discovering truths, Tommy lad. But it would be wise to start hunting for them. Lies are always easier to find than truths. Perhaps we can exhume a few of those."

"Will do," Tommy replied.

"Ah, that's the Red, White, and Blue, All-American attitude.

Thank God for that."

Pryce coughed and laughed, then he turned to the younger men.

"And Tommy, Hugh, one further thing. A critical thing, I think."

"What is it?"

"Find the spot where Trader Vic was murdered. The location will speak loudly."

"I'm not sure how."

"You will find it by doing what a true advocate must do to truly understand his case."

"What is that?"

"Put yourself into the hearts and minds of everyone involved.

The murdered man. The accused. And do not neglect the men who stand in judgment. For there may be many reasons that buttress the prosecution of a case, and many reasons a verdict is delivered, and it is critical that before that event takes place, you understand completely and utterly all the forces at work so diligently."

Tommy nodded.

Pryce reached for a teapot and grandly swished it in the air to determine if it was filled with water, then plopped it on top of the old cast-iron stove.

"Hugh's famous lumberjack may be sitting on the floor with a discharged gun in his lap and reeking from alcohol.

But who gave him the gun? And who poured him the drink?

And who called him a name, prompting the fight? And, more important, who truly stands to lose or gain by the death of the poor sod lying on the barroom floor?"

Pryce smiled again, grinning at both Renaday and Hart.

"All the forces. Tommy. All the forces."

He paused, then added, "My goodness, I haven't had this much fun since that damnable Messerschmidt got us in his sights. Tea ready, Hugh?"

For a moment, the older man's smile flickered, as he added, "Of course, probably young Mr.

Scott fails to find all this quite so intriguing as I do."

"Probably not," Tommy said.

"Because I still think they mean to kill him."

"That's the bloody problem with war," Hugh Renaday muttered as he tended to the teapot and the chipped, white ceramic mugs.

"There's always some right nasty bastard out there trying to kill you.

Who wants a spot of milk?"

The guard outside Lieutenant Lincoln Scott's cooler cell let the two fliers in without a word. It was closing in on noon, though the interior of the cell made it seem more like the gray of the hour just after dawn. Tommy assumed that Scott's pseudo-release order would be processed soon, but he thought it would be more interesting to question Scott when he was still in the unsettled state that the isolation and starkness of the cooler created. He said as much to Hugh, who'd nodded and replied: "Let's let me take a whack at him. The old provincial policeman's dull but sturdy approach, perhaps?"

This Tommy agreed to.

The Tuskegee airman was in a corner of the cooler doing push-ups when Tommy and Hugh entered. Scott was snapping off the exercises, his body rising and falling like a metronome, counting out the numbers, the words echoing in the small, damp space. He raised his head as they came through the door, but did not stop until he reached one hundred.

Then he pushed himself to his feet, staring at Hugh, who met his gaze with a singularly intense response of his own.

"And this is?" Scott asked.

"Flying Officer Hugh Renaday. He's my friend, and he's here to help."

Scott extended his hand, and the two men shook. But the black man did not release Hugh's grip immediately. Instead, they remained linked for a second or two in silence, while the black flier stared hard into every angle of the Canadian's face.

Hugh returned the look with as withering a glare of his own.

Then Scott said: "A policeman, right? Before the war."

Hugh nodded.

Scott suddenly dropped his hand.

"All right, Mr. Policeman.

Ask your questions."

Hugh smiled briefly.

"Why do you think I have any questions for you, Lieutenant Scott?"

"Why else would you be here?"

"Well, clearly Tommy needs help. And if Tommy needs assistance, then so do you. And we are speaking of a crime, which means evidence and witnesses and procedures. Do you not think a former policeman can help with these matters?

Even here, in Stalag Luft Thirteen?"

"I suppose so."

Hugh nodded.

"Good," he said.

"Glad to get that straight, right off the top. A few other things you can clear up, as well, lieutenant. Now, it would be safe to say that the victim. Captain Bedford, hated you, correct?"

"Yes. Well, actually, Mr. Renaday, he hated who I am, and what I stood for. He didn't know me. He just hated the concept of me" Hugh nodded.

"An interesting distinction. He hated the idea that a black man could be a fighter pilot, is that what you're saying?"

"Yes. But it was probably a little deeper even than that. He hated that a black man would aspire and excel at a province ordinarily reserved for whites. He hated progress. He hated achievement. He hated the idea that we might actually be equal."

"So, on the afternoon that he tried to lure you into stepping over the deadline, that would have been not really directed at you personally, but more at what you represent?"

Scott hesitated, then answered: "Yes. I believe so."

Hugh smiled.

"Then those Kraut machine gunners wouldn't really have been cutting you in half, it merely would have been some ideal?"

Scott did not reply.

Hugh smiled wryly.

"Tell me, lieutenant, dying for some ideal, is it less painful? Is your blood somehow a different color when you die for a concept?"

Again, Scott remained silent.

"And, might I ask, lieutenant, did you hate in return in a similar fashion? Did you not really hate Captain Bedford, but hate instead what you consider to be the antique and prejudiced views he embodied?"

Scott's eyes had narrowed and he paused before replying, almost as if suddenly wary.

"I hated what he represented."

"And you would do anything to defeat those odious views, correct?"

"No. Yes" "Well, which is it?"

"I would do anything."

"Including die yourself?"

"Yes, if I thought it was for the cause."

"That would be the cause of equality?"

"Yes."

"Understandable. But would you kill, as well?"

"Yes. No. It's not that damn simple, and you know it, Mr. Renaday."

"Ah, call me Hugh, lieutenant."

"Okay, Hugh. It's not that damn simple."

"Really? Why not?"

"Are we having a conversation about my case, or in general?"

"Are the two that separate, Lieutenant Scott?"

"Yes, Hugh."

"Then tell me how?"

"Because I hated Bedford and I wanted to kill every racist ideal that he represented, but I didn't kill him."

Hugh leaned back against the cooler wall.

"I see. Bedford represents everything you want to destroy.

But you didn't seize that opportunity?"

"That's correct. I didn't kill the bastard!"

"But you would have liked to?"

"Yes. But I didn't!"

"I see. Well, sure is convenient for you that he's dead, isn't it?"

"Yes!"

"Lucky for you, as well?"

"Yes!"

"But you didn't do it?"

"Yes! No! Damn it! I may have wanted to see him dead, but I didn't kill him! How many times must I tell you that?"

"I suspect many more. And it's a distinction that Tommy's going to have some little difficulty arguing in front of a military tribunal.

They are notoriously obtuse when it comes to these sorts of subtleties, lieutenant," Hugh said sarcastically.

Lincoln Scott was rigid now with anger, the muscles on his neck standing out like lines forged at some hellishly hot foundry. His eyes were wide, but his jaw was thrust forward; rage seemed to stream from his body like the sweat that ringed his forehead. Hugh Renaday stood a few feet away, leaning against the cooler wall. His body seemed languid, relaxed.

Occasionally he punctuated a point with an offhand wave of his arm, or by rolling his eyes, looking upward, as if mocking the black flier's denials.

"It's the truth! How hard is it to argue the truth?" Scott fairly shouted, the words bouncing off the walls of the cell.

"And what relevance does the truth really have?" Hugh replied softly.

This question seemed to stop the black man abruptly. Scott was bent forward at the waist, but rendered slightly openmouthed, as if the force of words gathered in reply had jammed his throat like commuters hurrying toward a rush-hour train. He turned to Tommy for a moment, almost as if he wanted him to come to his assistance, but he still said nothing. Tommy kept his own mouth clamped shut. He thought they were all being measured, in that small room, heights, weights, eyesight, blood pressure, and pulse. But more important, whether they were on the right side or the wrong side of a violent and unexplained death.

Into this small silence, Hugh Renaday eagerly stepped.

"So," he said briskly, like a mathematician reaching the end of a long equation, "you had motive. Plenty of motive. A goddamn abundance of motive, correct, lieutenant? And we already know you had the opportunity, for you have also rather blissfully admitted to everyone arrayed against you about leaving your bunk in the middle of the night in question.

All that's lacking, really, is the means. The means to perform the murder. And I suspect our counterparts are examining that question as we speak."

Hugh eyed Scott narrowly. He continued to speak in irritating, frank terms:

"Don't you think. Lieutenant Scott, that it makes much more sense to admit it? Own up to the killing. Really, in many respects, no one will blame you. I mean, certainly Bedford's friends will be outraged, but I think we could argue fairly successfully that you were provoked.

Provoked. Yes, Tommy, I truly think that's the way to go. Lieutenant Scott should openly admit what happened… it was a fair fight, after all, wasn't it, lieutenant? I mean, him against you. In the Abort. In the dark. It very well could have been you lying there…"

"I did not kill Captain Bedford!"

"We can argue a lack of premeditation. Tommy. Some bad blood between men that leads inevitably to a rather typical fight. The army deals with these all the time. Manslaughter, really… probably do a dozen years, hard labor, nothing more-" "You're not listening! I didn't kill anyone!"

"Except Germans, of course…"

"Yes!"

"The enemy?"

"Yes."

"Ah, but wasn't Bedford just as great an enemy?"

"Yes, but…"

"I see. It's all right to kill the one, but jolly well wrong to kill the other?"

"Yes."

"You don't make any sense, lieutenant!"

"I didn't kill him!"

"I think you did!"

Again Scott opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. He stared across the small space at Hugh Renaday, breathing hard, like a man fighting ocean waves and currents, struggling to make the safety of the shore.

He seemed to make some sort of inward decision, and then he spoke, in a cold, harsh fashion, evenly and direct, a voice of restrained passion, the voice of a man trained to fight and kill.

"If I had decided to kill Vincent Bedford," Lincoln Scott said, "I would not have done so in secret. I would have done it in front of everyone in the camp. And I would have done it with this…"

With those words, Scott suddenly stepped across the space separating himself from Renaday, throwing a roundhouse right fist through the air, but abruptly stopping short of the Canadian's face. The punch was savage and lightning-fast, delivered with accuracy and brutality. The black man's clenched hand hovered inches away from Renaday's chin, remaining there.

"This is what I would have used," Scott said, almost whispering.

"And I wouldn't have made any damn secret out of it."

Hugh stared at the fist for a second, then looked at the black man's flashing eyes.

"Very quick," he said in his quiet voice.

"You've had training?"

"Golden Gloves. Light heavyweight champion for the Midwest. Three years running. Undefeated in the ring. More one-punch knockouts than

I can count."

Scott turned toward Tommy.

"I quit boxing," he said stiffly, "because it got in the way of my studies."

"And those were?" Hugh demanded.

"After obtaining my undergraduate degree magna cum laude from Northwestern, I received a Ph.D. in educational psychology from the University of Chicago," Lincoln Scott replied.

"I have also done some graduate work in the unrelated field of aeronautical engineering. I took those courses in order to become an airman."

He dropped his fist to his side and took a step back, almost turning his back on the two white men, but then stopping and looking them, in turn, in the eyes.

"And I have killed no one, except Germans. As I was ordered to do by my country."

The two men left Lincoln Scott in the cooler cell and walked into the

South Compound. Tommy breathed in hard; as always, the tight confines of the cooler cells triggered a slight unsettled sensation within him, like a reminder to be afraid.

The cooler was as close as he wanted to get to confinement and his lurking claustrophobia. It was not a cave, a closet, or a tunnel, but it had some of the dreary, dark aspects of each, and this made him nervous, stirring his childhood fear within him.

An odd quiet seemed to have settled across the American section of the camp; the usual numbers of men weren't out in the exercise yard, nor were men walking the perimeter with the same steady, frustrated march.

The weather had improved again, breaks of sunshine and blue sky interrupting the overcast Bavarian heavens, making the faraway lines of pine trees in the surrounding forest glisten and gleam in the distance.

Hugh strode forward, as if the quickness in his feet mirrored the calculations in his head. Tommy Hart kept pace beside him, so that the two men were shoulder to shoulder, like a pair of medium bombers flying in tight protective formation.

For a moment. Tommy looked up. He imagined rows of planes lining runways throughout England, Sicily, and North Africa. In his mind's ear, he could hear the drone of the massed engines, a steady, great roar of energy, increasing in pitch and thrust, as phalanxes of planes raced down the tarmac and lumbered up, laden with their heavy bomb loads, into the clearing skies. He saw above him a shaft of daylight streaking through the thinning clouds and thought that there were officers and flight commanders sitting at desks in safe offices throughout the world seeing the same sunlight and thinking that it was a fine day to send young men off to kill or to die. A pretty simple question, that, he thought to himself.

Not much of a selection. Not much of a choice.

He lowered his eyes and thought about what he'd seen and heard in the cooler. He took a deep breath, and whispered to his companion: "He didn't do it."

Hugh didn't answer until a few more strides across the muddy compound had passed beneath his feet. Then he said, also quietly, as if the two men were sharing some secret, "No. I don't think so, either. Not after he put that fist in my face. Now that made sense, I guess, if anything around here can be said to make sense. But that's not the problem, is it?"

Tommy shook his head as he answered.

"The problem is that right now everything seemingly points to him. Even his denials are more suggestive of his being the killer than not. It wasn't hard for you to turn him inside out, either. Makes me wonder what sort of a witness on his own behalf Lieutenant Scott can be."

Tommy was struck by a thought: When the truth seems to support a lie, wouldn't the reverse be accurate as well? He did not say this out loud.

"We still haven't considered the blood on his shoes and jacket. Now, Tommy, how the hell did that get there?"

Tommy walked a few more paces, himself, considering this. Then he answered swiftly, "Well, Hugh, Scott told us that he sneaks out to use the toilet at night. No one sneaks anywhere wearing a pair of clomping flight boots on old creaking wooden flooring, do they? Wake up the world that way.

And no one wears their flight jacket to bed, even if it is cold.

I'll bet he hung his from a nail on the wall, just the same as everyone else in that room. Same as you and same as I. How hard would it have been to borrow these items?"

Hugh grunted. Then he said, "I'll jolly well wager my next chocolate bar that this is precisely what Phillip was driving at earlier. A frame-up."

"Fine, but why?"

Hugh shrugged.

"That one eludes me. Tommy. I haven't the slightest idea."

The two men continued' walking quickly, until Hugh asked, "I say.

Tommy, we seem to be in a hurry, but where are we heading?"

"To the funeral, Hugh. And then I want you to go find someone and interview him."

"Who would that be?"

"The doctor who examined Trader Vic's body."

"I didn't know a doctor had examined the body."

Tommy nodded his head.

"Someone has. In addition to Hauptmann Visser. We just need to find that person. And in this camp there are only two or three logical candidates.

They're all over in Hut 111, where the medical services are located.

That's where you're heading. I'll do the escort job for Lieutenant

Scott. Not going to make him walk across the camp alone…"

"I'll join you for that. It's not likely to be pleasant."

"No," Tommy replied with more bravado than he thought necessary.

"I'll do it alone. I want your participation to be concealed, at least until we get our first hearing. And even more critically, let's make certain that no one knows how Phillip is guiding our hands. If there is some sort of frame-up and conspiracy and whatever, it's better that whoever it is doesn't know that one of the Old Bailey's best is aligned against him."

Hugh nodded.

"Tommy," he said, grinning slightly, "there is some slyness to you, as well." He laughed sharply, but not with a great deal of amusement.

"Which is probably a right good ling," he muttered, as they walked faster, "given what we're up against.

Whatever the bloody hell that is."

The hulking Canadian took another few strides forward, and then asked, "Of course. Tommy, one question does leap fairly swiftly to mind: What the hell sort of conspiracy could we be talking about?" Hugh came to an abrupt stop. He looked up, across the exercise yard, past the deadline, past the towers, the machine-gun crews, the wire, and the long cleared space beyond.

"Here? I wonder, whatever could we be talking about?"

Tommy followed his friend's eyes, staring out past the wire. He wondered for an instant whether the air would taste sweeter on the day he was freed. That was what poets always wrote, he thought: The sweet taste of freedom. He fought off the urge to think of home. Images of Manchester and his mother and father sitting down to a summertime dinner, or Lydia standing beside an old bicycle on the dusty sidewalk outside his house on an early fall afternoon, when only the smallest insistence of winter is in the early evening breezes.

She had blond hair that dropped in burnished sheets to her shoulders and he found himself reaching up, almost as if he could touch it. These pictures rushed at him, and for a single instant the harsh, grimy world of the camp started to fade from his eyes. But then, just as swiftly as they came, they fled.

He looked back at Hugh, who seemed to be waiting for an answer to his question, and so he replied, with only the smallest hesitation and doubt in his voice:

"I don't know. Not yet. I don't know."

Kriegies did not die, they merely suffered.

Inadequate diet, the obsessive-compulsive manner in which they threw themselves into sports, or the makeshift theater or whatever activity with which they decided to while away time, the oddity of their anxieties about whether they would ever return home coupled with the ill-adjustment to the routines of prison life, the seemingly constant cold and damp and dirt, poor hygiene, susceptibility to disease, boredom contradicted by hope, which was in turn contradicted by the ubiquitous wire-all these things made for a curious tenuousness and fragility to life. Like Phillip Pryce's lingering cough, they were constantly being intimidated by death, but rarely did it come knocking with its harsh demands and fearsome requirements.

In his two years in confinement, Tommy had only seen a dozen deaths, and half of these were men who went wire crazy and tried to blitz out in the middle of the night, dying in the fences with homemade metal cutters in their hands, chopped apart by a sudden burst from a Hundfuhrer's machine pistol or a tower machine-gun crew. And over the years, there were a few men who had arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen after suffering terrible injuries falling from the air and then inadequate care in German hospitals. The day and night constancy of the Allied bombing raids had limited the precious medicines and antibiotics available to the Germans, and many of their better surgeons had already died -in forward hospitals treating men on the Russian front. But Luftwaffe policy toward the occasional Allied airmen seemingly at risk from wounds or disease was to arrange repatriation through the Swiss Red Cross. This was usually accomplished before the unlucky flier succumbed. The Luftwaffe preferred terminally sick or injured kriegies to die in the care of the Swiss; then they appeared less culpable.

He could not recall an instance where a kriegie was buried with military honors. Usually deaths were handled quietly, or with some sort of informal moment, like the jazz band's honoring one of their own. He thought it surprising that Von Reiter would permit a military funeral; the Germans wanted kriegies to think like kriegies, not like soldiers. It is far easier to guard a man who thinks of himself as a prisoner than it is to guard a man who thinks of himself as a warrior.

At the dusty juncture formed by two huts and converging alleys. Tommy pointed Hugh in the direction of the medical services hut, and hurried down the narrow walkway between 119 and 120, which would take him to the burial ground. He could hear a voice coming from around the corner, but could not make out the words being spoken.

He slowed as he rounded the corner of Hut 119.

Some three hundred kriegies stood in formation beside the hastily prepared gravesite. Tommy immediately recognized almost all the men from Hut 101, and a smattering of other fliers, probably someone representing each of the remaining buildings. Six German soldiers carrying bolt-action rifles stood at parade rest just slightly to the side of the squares of men.

Trader Vic's coffin had been predictably nailed together from the light-colored wooden crates that delivered the Red Cross parcels. The flimsy balsa wood was the preferred building material for virtually every bit of furniture in the American camp, but Tommy thought with some irony that no one expected it to form the walls of their own casket. Three officers stood at the head of the coffin: MacNamara,

Clark, and a priest, who was reading the twenty-third psalm. The priest had been shot down over Italy the previous summer, when he'd taken his charge of administering to the flock of airmen in a light bomber group perhaps a bit too seriously, and had elected to fly on one of their runs over Salerno at a time when German antiaircraft troops on the ground were still active, and German fighters still plied their deadly trade in the air.

He had a flat, reedy voice that managed to dull even the famous words of the psalm. When he said, "The Lord is my shepherd…" he made it sound like God was actually tending sheep, not watching over those at risk.

Tommy hesitated, not knowing whether he should join the formations or merely keep watch from the periphery. In that momentary pause, he heard a voice from his side, which took him by surprise.

"And what is it, Lieutenant Hart, that you expect to see?"

He turned sharply toward the questioner.

Hauptmann Heinrich Visser was standing a few feet away, smoking a dark brown cigarette, leaning back against Hut 119. The German held the smoke like a dart, lifting it languidly to his lips, but relishing each long pull.

Tommy took a deep breath.

"I expect to see nothing," he replied slowly.

"People who go somewhere with expectations are generally rewarded by seeing what they anticipated. I'm merely here to observe, and whatever

I do see will be what I need to see."

Visser smiled.

"Ah," he said, "a clever man's response. But not very military."

Tommy shrugged.

"Well, then I guess I'm not a perfect soldier."

Visser shook his head.

"We shall see about that, I suppose.

In the days to come."

"And you, Hauptmann7 Are you a perfect soldier?"

The German shook his head.

"Alas, no. Lieutenant Hart.

But I have been an efficient soldier. Remarkably efficient. But not perfect. These things, I think, are not precisely the same."

"Your English is quite good."

"Thank you. I lived for many years in Milwaukee, growing up with my aunt and uncle. Perhaps had I stayed another year or two, I would have considered myself to be more American than German. Can you imagine, lieutenant, that I was actually quite accomplished at the game of baseball?" The German glanced down at his missing arm.

"No longer, I suppose.

Regardless. I could have stayed. But I did not. I elected to return to the fatherland for my education. And thus did I get caught up in the great things that took place in my country."

Visser swung his eyes toward the funeral.

"Your Colonel MacNamara," the German said slowly, his eyes measuring the SAO carefully.

"My first impression is that he is a man who believes his imprisonment at Stalag Luft Thirteen is a black mark on his career. A failure of command. I cannot tell, sometimes, when he looks at me, whether he hates me and all Germans because that is what he has been taught, or whether he hates me because I am preventing him from killing more of my countrymen. And I think, in all these hatreds, he perhaps hates himself, as well. What do you think. Lieutenant Hart? Is he a commanding officer you respect? Is he the sort of leader who gives a command and men follow instantly, without question, without regard to their own lives and safety?"

"He is the Senior American Officer, and he is respected."

The German did not look at Tommy, but he laughed.

"Ah, lieutenant, already you have the makings of a diplomat."

He took a single, long puff on the cigarette, then dropped it to the dirt, grinding it under the toe of his boot.

"Have you the makings of an advocate? I wonder."

Visser smiled, then continued, "And is that what is truly required of you? I wonder about this, too."

The Hauptmann turned to Tommy.

"A funeral is so rarely about finality, isn't this true, lieutenant?

Are they not really much more the beginning of something?"

Visser's smile bent around the corner of his mouth, twisting with the scars. Then he turned away, once again watching the proceedings. The pastor's voice had moved on to a reading from the New Testament, the story of the loaves and fishes, a poor choice because it would probably make all the assembled kriegies hungry. Tommy saw that there was no flag draping the coffin, but that Vic's leather flight jacket, with the American flag sewn onto the sleeve, had been carefully folded and placed in the center of the box.

The pastor finished reading and the formations came to attention.

A trumpeter stepped from the ranks and blew the soulful notes of taps.

As these faded into the midday air, the squad of German soldiers stepped to the front, lifted their weapons to their shoulders, and fired a single volley into the clearing sky, almost as if they were blasting away the remaining gray clouds and carving a hole of blue.

The noise of the shots echoed briefly. It was not lost on Tommy that the sound was the same as it would be if the same six soldiers were gathered into a firing squad.

Four men stepped from the formation and, using ropes, lowered Trader

Vic's coffin into the ground. Then Major Clark gave the order to dismiss, and the men turned away, walking in groups back into the middle of the compound.

More than a few stared at Tommy Hart as they moved past him. But no one said a word.

He, in turn, met many pairs of eyes, his own gaze narrowed and hard. He guessed that the men who'd threatened him were in the knots of passing airmen. But who they might be he had no idea. No single pair of eyes spoke to him with a threat.

Visser lit another cigarette and started humming the French tune

"Aupres de ma Blonde," which had a lilt to it that seemed to insult the ragged solemnity of the funeral.

Tommy abruptly saw Major Clark striding toward him.

Clark's face was rigid, his jaw thrust forward.

"Hart," he said briskly.

"You are not welcome here."

Tommy came to attention.

"Captain Bedford was my friend, as well, major," he replied, although he wasn't sure this was completely true.

Clark did not reply to this, but turned instead to the Hauptmann, saluting.

"Hauptmann Visser, will you please see to the release of Lieutenant

Scott, the accused, into Lieutenant Hart's custody. Now is certainly a reasonable time."

Visser saluted in return, smiling.

"As you wish, major. I will see to it immediately."

Clark nodded. He glanced again at Tommy.

"Not welcome," he said again, as he turned and strode away. Behind him, Tommy could hear the first thudding sound of a clod of dirt being shoveled onto the lid of Trader Vic's coffin.

Hauptmann Visser escorted Tommy Hart back to the cooler to release Lincoln Scott. Along the way, the German officer signaled to a pair of helmeted guards and to Fritz Number One to accompany them. He continued to hum brisk, lively cabaret tunes. The sky above them had finally completely cleared, the last wisps of gray clouds fleeing toward the east. Tommy looked up and spotted the white contrails of a flight ofB-17s crossing the plate of watery blue. It would not be long before they were attacked, he thought. But they were still high, maybe five miles up, and still relatively safe. When they dropped through the sky toward the lower altitudes for the bombing run, then they were in the greatest danger.

He looked across at the squat, ugly cooler and thought the same was true for Lincoln Scott. For a moment he thought that it might be safer to leave him in confinement, but then, almost as quickly, the thought fled. He squared his shoulders and realized that what he faced was no different from the airmen in the sky above him. A mission, an objective, their passage threatened the entire route. He stole one more glance skyward, and thought that he could do no less than those men above him.

Scott was on his feet instantly as Tommy entered the cell.

"Damn, Hart, I am ready to get out of here," he said.

"What a hellhole."

"I'm not sure what to expect," Tommy replied.

"We'll just have to take it as it comes."

"I'm ready," Scott insisted.

"I just want out of here. Whatever happens, happens." The black man seemed knotted, coiled, and ready to burst.

Tommy nodded.

"All right. We will walk across the compound directly to Hut 101. You will go straight to your bunk room. When we get there, we'll consider our next step."

Scott nodded.

The black flier blinked hard when they emerged into the daylight. For a moment, he rubbed his eyes, as if to clear the darkness of the cooler cell away from them. He was clutching his clothing and his blanket beneath his left arm, leaving the right free. His fist was clenched tight, as if he was ready to throw the same roundhouse that he'd sent whistling at Hugh Renaday earlier that morning. As his eyes adjusted, Scott seemed to stand more upright, regaining his athleticism, so that by the time the group reached the gate, he was striding with a military purposefulness, almost as if he were marching on the edge of a West Point parade ground, readying himself to pass in review of a group of dignitaries. Tommy stayed at his side, in turn flanked by the two guards, a step behind Fritz Number One and Hauptmann Visser.

At the barbed-wire and wood-framed gate to the southern camp, the German officer stopped. He spoke a quick few words to Fritz Number One, who saluted, then another few words to the guards.

"Do you wish for an escort back to your hut?" he asked Lincoln Scott.

"No," Scott replied.

Visser smiled.

"Perhaps Lieutenant Hart will see the value in an escort?"

Tommy took a quick look through the wire at the compound.

A few groups of men were out; things looked normal.

There was a baseball being tossed about, other men were walking the perimeter track. He could see men lying back up against the buildings, some reading, some talking. A few men were sunbathing, their shirts off in the warming air. There was nothing that indicated that a funeral had taken place less than an hour earlier. Nothing that suggested anger, or rage.

Stalag Luft Thirteen looked as it had every day for years.

And this troubled Tommy. He took a deep, slow breath.

"No," he said.

"We'll be fine by ourselves."

Visser sighed deeply, an almost mocking sound.

"As you wish," he said. He half-snorted, looking over at Tommy.

"This is ironic, no? Me offering you protection from your own comrades. Most unusual, do you not think. Lieutenant Hart?" Visser didn't really seem to expect a reply to his questions, and Tommy wasn't willing to give him one, anyway. Visser then spoke a few words in German and the armed guards stepped aside. Fritz Number One also moved out of their path. He was frowning, and seemed nervous.

"Until later, then," Visser said. He hummed a few short bars of some unrecognizable tune, his now-familiar small, cruel smile sliding around his face. The officer then stopped, turned to the soldiers manning the gate, and with a wide swing of his only arm, gestured for the gate to open.

"All right, lieutenant, let's go. Steady march," Tommy said.

Shoulder to shoulder, the two men stepped forward.

The gate had only begun to swing shut behind them when Tommy heard the first whistle. It was joined by another, and then a third and fourth, the high-pitched sounds blending together, traveling the length and breadth of the camp within seconds. The men throwing the softball back and forth stopped, and turned toward them. Before they had traveled twenty yards, the false normalcy of the camp was replaced by the noises of hurrying feet, and the rattling and thudding of wooden doors swinging open and slamming shut.

"Keep your eyes front," Tommy whispered, but this was unnecessary, as Lincoln Scott had straightened up even more, and was stepping across the compound with the renewed determination of a distance runner who finally spies the finish line.

In front of them, crowds of men streamed from the huts, moving as quickly as if the ferrets' whistles were calling them to an Appell or as if the air-raid sirens had sounded an alarm.

Within seconds, hundreds of men had gathered in a huge, seething block, not a formation as much as a barricade. The crowd Tommy wasn't yet sure whether it was closer to a mob gathered directly in their path.

Neither Lincoln Scott nor Tommy Hart slowed their stride as they approached the congregation.

"Don't stop," he whispered to Lincoln Scott.

"But don't fight, either."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a barely perceptible nod from the Tuskegee airman's head, and he heard a slight grunt of acknowledgment.

"Killer!" He could not tell precisely where the word came from, but somewhere within the bubbling tide of men.

"Murderer!" Another voice chimed in.

A deep, rumbling noise started to come from the men who blocked their path. Words of anger and hatred mingled freely with epithets and catcalls. Whistles and booing supported the noises of rage, growing in frequency and intensity as the two fliers continued forward.

Tommy kept his eyes straight ahead, hoping that he would spot one of the senior officers, but did not. He noticed that Scott, jaw set with determination, had increased the pace slightly. For a moment, Tommy thought the two of them not unlike a ship racing headlong toward a rocky shoreline, oblivious to the wreck that awaited them.

"Goddamn murdering nigger!"

They were perhaps ten yards from the mass of men. He did not know whether the wall would open or not. At that second, he spotted several of the men who shared his own bunk room.

They were men he thought of as friends; not close ones, but friends nonetheless. They were men with whom he'd shared foodstuffs and books and the occasional reverie about life at home, shared moments of longing and desires and dreams and nightmares. He did not, in that instant, think they would harm him. He wasn't certain of this, of course, because he no longer was sure how they looked upon him. But he thought they might have some hesitation in their emotions, and so, with just the smallest bump shoulder to shoulder, against Scott, he shifted direction to head directly toward them.

He could hear Lincoln Scott's breathing. It was quick and short, small gasps of air snatched from the effort their pace demanded.

Other voices and insults reverberated around him, the words crossing the space between the fliers faster than his feet could carry him.

He heard: "We should settle this now!"

And worse, a chorus of assent.

He ignored the threats. In that second he suddenly recalled the wonderfully calm voice of his dead captain from Texas, steering the Lovely Lydia into yet another hailstorm of flak and death, and without raising his voice, speaking steadily over the bomber's intercom, saying, "Hell, boys, we ain't gonna let a little bit of trouble bother us none, are we?" And he thought that this was a storm that he was going to have to fly directly into the center of, keeping his eyes straight ahead, just as his old captain had done, even though the last storm had cost him his life and the lives of all the others in that plane, save one.

And so, without breaking stride. Tommy launched himself at the gathering of fliers. Linked invisibly but just as strongly as if they were roped together, he and Lincoln Scott tossed themselves at the men blocking their path.

The crowd seemed to waver. Tommy saw his roommates step back and to the side, creating a small F-like opening.

Into that breach, he and Scott sailed. They were enveloped immediately, the crowd sliding in behind them. But the men to their front made way, even if only slightly, just enough for them to continue forward.

The closeness of the men seemed to buffet them like winds. The voices around them quieted, the catcalls and epithets suddenly fading away, so that they struggled forward through the mass of men in an abrupt, eerie silence, one that was perhaps worse than the noise of the insults had been a few moments earlier. It seemed to Tommy that no one touched them, yet it was still difficult to step forward, like wading through fast-running water, where the current and power of the river pushed and tugged hard at his legs and chest.

And then, suddenly, they were through.

The last few men cleared from their path, and Tommy saw the route to the huts open wide, empty of men. It was like bursting in their plane from a dark and angry thunderhead into clear skies and safety.

Still in lockstep, marching in tandem. Tommy and Scott headed fast for Hut 101. Behind them, the crowd remained silent.

Scott sounded like a man who'd just boxed fifteen rounds.

Tommy realized his own short and wheezy breathing duplicated that of the black flier.

He did not know why he turned his head slightly, at that moment, but he did. Just a slight shift of the neck, and a gaze off to his right. And in that small glance, he caught a brief glimpse of Colonel MacNamara and Major Clark, standing just behind one of the grime-streaked windows of an adjacent hut, partially concealed and watching their progress across the compound grounds. Tommy was riveted with a sudden, almost uncontrollable outrage, directed at the two senior officers, for allowing their own express order to be contradicted.

"No threats… treat with courtesy…" that was what MacNamara had demanded in no uncertain terms. And then he'd witnessed the violation of that order. Tommy almost, in that second, turned and headed toward the two commanders, filled with instant indignation and a desire for confrontation.

But into the midst of that abrupt anger he heard another voice speaking to him, suggesting that perhaps he had just learned something important, something he should keep to himself.

And it was this voice that he decided to follow.

Tommy turned away, although he made absolutely certain that MacNamara and Clark had seen that he'd seen them spying on their progress from behind the window. With the black flier at his side, he climbed the wooden planks into Hut 101.

Lincoln Scott spoke first.

"Well," he said quietly, "it seems bleak."

At first Tommy wasn't certain whether the fighter pilot was speaking about the case or the room, because the same could have been said of both. Everything accumulated by the other kriegies who'd once shared the space had been removed. All that remained was a single wooden bunk with a dirty blue ticking pallet stuffed with straw. A solitary thin gray blanket had been left behind on the top. Lincoln Scott tossed his remaining blankets and clothing down on the bed. The overhead electric bulb burned, although the room was filled with the remaining diffuse light of afternoon. His makeshift table and storage area were at the head of the bed. The flier looked inside and saw that his two books and store of foodstuffs were all intact. The only thing missing was the handmade frying pan, which had inexplicably disappeared.

"It could be worse," Tommy said. This time it was Scott's turn to look at him, trying to guess whether it was the accommodations or the case that he was speaking of.

Both men were quiet for an instant, before Tommy asked:

"So, when you went to bed at night, after sneaking around to the toilet, where did you put your flight jacket?"

Scott gestured to the side of the door.

"Right there," he said.

"Everybody had a nail. Everybody hung their jackets there. They were easy to grab when the sirens or the whistles went off." Scott sat down heavily on the bed, picking up the Bible.

Tommy went over to the wall.

The nails were missing. There were eight small holes in the wooden wallboard arranged in groups of two, and spaced a couple of feet apart, but that was all.

"Where did Vic hang his coat?"

"Next to mine, actually. We were the last two in line.

Everybody always used the same nail, because we wanted to be able to grab the right jacket in a hurry. That was why they were spaced out, in pairs."

"Where do you suppose the nails are now?"

"I haven't any idea. Why would someone take them away?"

Tommy didn't answer, although he knew the reason. It wasn't only the nails that were missing. It was an argument.

He turned back to Scott, who was starting to leaf through the pages of the Bible.

"My father is a Baptist minister," Scott said.

"Mount Zion Baptist Church on the South Side of Chicago. And he always says that the Good Book will provide guidance in times of turmoil.

Myself, I am perhaps more skeptical than he, but not totally willing to refuse the Word."

The black flier's finger had crept inside the pages of the book, and with a flick, he opened the Bible. He looked down and read the first words he saw.

"Matthew, chapter six, verse twenty-four: "No man can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one and despise the other."

Scott burst out with a laugh.

"Well, I guess that makes some sense. What do you think. Hart? Two masters?" He snapped the Bible shut, then slowly exhaled.

"All right, what's the next step? Now that I've gone from one prison cell to the next, what's in store for me?"

" Procedurally A hearing tomorrow. A formal reading of the charges.

You declare your innocence. We get to examine the evidence against you. Then, next week, a trial."

"A trial. A nice word to describe it. And counselor, your approach?"

"Delay. Question authority. Challenge the legality of the proceedings. Request time to interview all the witnesses.

Claim a lack of proper jurisdiction over the matter. In other words, fight each technicality as hard as possible."

Scott nodded, but in the motion of his head there was some resignation.

He looked over at Tommy.

"Those men just now, in the compound. All lined up and shouting. And then, when we passed through, the silence. I thought they wanted to kill me."

"I did, too."

He shook his head, his eyes downcast.

"They don't know me. They don't know anything about me."

Tommy didn't reply.

Scott leaned back, his eyes looking up to the ceiling. For the first time. Tommy seemed to sense a mingling of nervousness and doubt behind the flier's pugnacity. For several seconds, Scott stared at the whitewashed boards of the roof, then at the bare bulb burning in the center of the room.

"I could have run, you know. I could have got away. And then I wouldn't be here."

"What do you mean?"

Scott's voice was slow, deliberate.

"We had already flown our escort mission, you see. We'd fought off a couple of attacks on the formation, and then delivered them to their field.

We were heading home, Nathaniel Winslow and myself, thinking about a hot meal, maybe a poker game, and then hitting the hay, when we heard the distress call. Right in the clear, just like a drowning man calling out to anyone on the shore to please throw him a rope. It was a B-17 flying down on the deck, two engines out and half its tail shot away. It wasn't even from the group we were supposed to be guarding, you see, it was some other fighter wing's responsibility. Not the 332nd. Not ours, you see. So we didn't really have to do anything.

And we were low on fuel and ammo, but there the poor bastard was, with six Focke-Wulfs making run after run at him. And Nathaniel, you know, he didn't hesitate, not even for a second. He turned his Mustang over on its wing and shouted at me to follow him, and he dove on them. He had less than three seconds of ammunition left. Hart. Three seconds.

Count them: one, two, three. That's how long he could shoot. Hell, I didn't have much more. But if we didn't go in there, then all those guys were going to die. Two against six.

We'd faced worse odds. And both Nathaniel and I got a kill in our first pass, a nice side deflection shot, which broke up their attack, and the B-17, it lumbered out of there and the FWs came after us. One swung around onto Nathaniel, but I came up before he could line him up and blew him out of the air.

But that was it. No more ammo. Got to turn and run, you know, and with that big turbocharged Merlin engine, weren't none of those Kraut bastards gonna catch us. But just as we get ready to hightail it home, Nathaniel, he sees that two of the fighters have peeled off after the B-17, and again, he shouts at me to follow him after them. I mean, what were we going to do? Spit at them? Call them names? You see, with Nathaniel, with all of us, it was a matter of pride. No bomber we were protecting was going down. Got that? None. Zero.

Never. Not when the 332nd was there. Not when the boys from Tuskegee were watching over you. Then, goddamn it, you were gonna get home safe, no matter how many damn planes the Luftwaffe sent up against us.

That we promised.

No black flier was going to lose any white boys to the Krauts.

So Nathaniel, he screams up behind the first FW, just letting the bastard know he's there, trying to make the Nazi think he's dead if he doesn't get out of there. Nathaniel, you know, he was a helluva poker player.

Helped put himself through college taking rich boys' allowances. Seven card stud was his game. Bluff you right out of your shorts nine times out often.

Had that look, you know the one, the "I've got a full house and don't you mess with me' look, when really he's only holding a lousy pair of sevens…"

Lincoln Scott took another deep breath.

"They got him, of course. The wing man came around behind and stitched him good. I could hear Nathaniel screaming over the radio as he went down. Then they came after me.

Blew a hole in the fuel tank. I don't know why it didn't explode.

I was smoking, heading down, and I guess they used up all their ammunition getting me, because they broke off and disappeared. I bailed out at maybe five thousand feet.

And now I'm here. We could have run, you know, but we didn't. And the damn bomber made it home. They always made it home. Maybe we didn't.

But they did."

Scott shook his head slowly.

"Those men out there in that mob. They wouldn't be here today if it'd been the 332nd flying escort duty over them.

No sir."

Scott lifted himself from the bed, still clutching the Bible in his hand. He used the black-jacketed book to gesture toward Tommy, punctuating his words.

"It is not in my nature, Mr. Hart, to be accepting. Nor is it in my nature to just let things happen to me. I'm not some sort of carry your bags, tip my hat, yessuh, nosuh, house nigger, Hart. All this procedural crap you mentioned, well, that's fine. We need to argue that stuff, well, you're the lawyer here, Hart, let's argue it. But when it comes right down to it, then I want to fight. I did not kill Captain Bedford and I think it's about damn time we let everyone know it!"

Tommy listened closely, absorbing what the black man had said and how he'd said it.

"Then I think we have a difficult task ahead of us," he said softly.

"Hart, nothing in my life up to this point has been easy.

Nothing truly worthwhile ever is. My preacher daddy used to say that every morning, every evening. And he was right then, and it's right now."

"Good. Because if you didn't kill Captain Bedford, I think we're going to have to find out who did. And why. And I don't think that will be an easy task, because I haven't got even the slightest idea how to get started."

Scott nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but before any of the words came out, he was distracted by the sound of marching boots coming from the exterior corridor. The steady resonant noise stopped outside the doorway and seconds later the single thick wooden door to the bunk room flew open. Tommy turned swiftly toward the sound, and saw that MacNamara and Clark, along with a half-dozen other officers, were gathered in the hallway. Tommy recognized at least two of the men as former occupants of Trader Vic and Lincoln Scott's bunk room.

MacNamara stepped into the room first, but then stood just to the side.

He didn't say anything, but crossed his arms, watching, Clark, as always, was directly behind him, passing rapidly into the center of the room. The major stared angrily at Tommy, then fixed Lincoln Scott with a harsh, angry stare.

"Lieutenant Scott," Clark hissed, "do you still deny the charges against you?"

"I do," Scott replied, equally forcefully.

"Then you will not object to a search of your belongings?"

Tommy Hart stepped forward.

"We do indeed object! Under what rule of law do you think you can come in here and search Lieutenant Scott's personal property? You need a warrant.

You need to show cause at a hearing, with testimony and with supporting evidence! We absolutely object! Colonel…"

MacNamara said nothing.

Clark turned first to Tommy, then back to Lincoln Scott.

"I fail to see what the problem is. If you are indeed innocent, as you claim, then what would you have to hide?"

"I have nothing to hide!" Scott answered sharply.

"Whether he does, or does not, is irrelevant!" Tommy's voice was raised, insistent.

"Colonel! A search is unreasonable and clearly unconstitutional!"

Colonel MacNamara finally answered in a cold, slow voice.

"If Lieutenant Scott objects, then we will bring this matter up at tomorrow's hearing. The tribunal can decide…"

"Go ahead," Scott said briskly.

"I did not do anything, so I have nothing to hide!"

Tommy glared at Scott.

The black flier ignored Tommy's look and sneered at Major Clark.

"Have at it, major," he said.

Major Clark, with two other officers at his side, approached the bed.

They quickly felt through the stuffed mattress and rifled the few clothes and blankets. Lincoln Scott stepped a few feet away, standing alone, back up against one of the wooden walls. The three officers then flipped through the pages of the Bible and The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and examined the makeshift storage table. Tommy thought, in that second, that the men were making the most perfunctory of searches. None of the items they inspected was really being closely scrutinized. Nor did they seem particularly interested in what they were doing. A sense of nervousness flooded over him, and he once again burst out, "Colonel, I repeat my objection to this intrusion!

Lieutenant Scott is not in a position to intelligently waive his constitutional protections against unlawful search and seizure!"

Major Clark seemed to smile at Tommy.

"We're almost finished," he said.

MacNamara did not reply to Tommy's plea.

"Colonel! This is wrong!"

Suddenly the two officers accompanying Major Clark reached down and lifted the corners of the wooden bunk.

With a scraping noise, they shifted it perhaps ten inches to the right, dropping it back to the wooden flooring with a resounding clunk. In almost the same motion. Major Clark bent down to one knee, and started examining the floorboards that were now exposed.

"What are you doing?" Lincoln Scott demanded.

No one answered.

Instead, Clark abruptly worked one of the boards loose, and with a single, sharp motion, lifted it up. The board had been cut and then replaced in the floor. Tommy instantly recognized it for what it was: a hiding place. The space between the cement foundation and the wooden flooring was perhaps three or four inches deep. When he'd first arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen, this had been a favorite kriegie concealment location. Dirt from the many failed tunnels, contraband, radios, uniforms recut into civilian clothing for escapes planned but never acted upon, stockpiles of useless emergency escape rations all were hoarded in the small vacant space beneath the floor in each room.

But what had seemed so convenient to the kriegies had not failed to gain the attention of the ferrets.

Tommy remembered that Fritz Number One had been inordinately proud of himself the day he'd uncovered one of the hiding places, because the discovery of one led him immediately to the uncovering of more than two dozen similar locations in different bunk rooms in other huts.

Consequently, the kriegies had abandoned stashing items beneath the flooring over a year earlier, which frustrated Fritz Number One, because he kept searching the same spots over and over again.

"Colonel!

"Tommy heard himself shouting.

"This is unfair!"

"Unfair, is it?" Major Clark replied.

The stocky senior officer reached down into the empty space and came up, smiling, clutching a long, flat homemade blade in his hand. The blade was perhaps a foot long, and one end had been wrapped with some sort of material. The piece of metal had been flattened and sharpened and caught a malevolent glint of light, as it was removed from beneath the flooring.

"Recognize this?" Clark said to Lincoln Scott.

"No."

Clark grinned.

"Sure," he said. He turned to one of the officers who had been hanging at the rear of the group.

"Let me see that frying pan." The officer suddenly held out Lincoln Scott's handmade cooking utensil.

"How about this? This yours, lieutenant?"

"Yes," Scott answered.

"Where did you get it?"

Clark clearly wasn't answering the question. Instead, he turned, holding both the homemade frying pan and the homemade knife. He glanced at Tommy but directed his words to Colonel MacNamara.

"Watch carefully," he said.

Slowly, the major unwrapped the odd olive drab cloth that Scott had used to make the handle of the frying pan. Then, just as slowly and deliberately, he unwrapped the blade's grip.

Then he held up both strips of cloth. They were of the same material and of nearly identical length.

"They look to be the same," Colonel MacNamara said sharply.

"One difference, sir," Clark replied.

"This one"-he held up the one that had wrapped the knife handle "this one here appears to have Captain Bedford's blood staining it."

Scott straightened rigidly, his mouth opened slightly. He seemed about to say something, but instead turned and looked at Tommy. For the first time. Tommy saw something that he took to be fear in the black flier's eyes. And, in that second, he remembered what Hugh Renaday and

Phillip Pryce had spoken of earlier that day. Motive. Opportunity.

Means. Three legs of a triangle. But when they had talked, the means had been missing from the equation.

That was no longer true.