The crowd parted reluctantly to let him pass, and he paused at the first step to Hut 101, turning and facing the men. Lincoln Scott hovered just behind him.
“What is going on?” he asked again.
“Ask the nigger,” a voice from the mob answered. “He’s the one that wants to fight.”
Tommy did not turn to Scott, but instead slid his body between the front row of the crowd and where the black airman was perched. He pointed directly at the man who’d spoken. “I’m asking you,” he said briskly.
There was a momentary hesitation, then the man answered, “Well, I guess your boy there doesn’t cotton to some of the local artwork. . . .”
Several men started to laugh.
“And because he ain’t much of an art critic, well, he comes storming out of the hut there, challenging each and every one out here just minding their own business to a fight. Damn, he looks right ready to have it out, one by one, with just about everyone in this damn camp, excepting maybe you, Hart. But the rest of us, well, he looks like he wants a piece of every flier here.”
Before Tommy could respond, another voice came bellowing from perhaps fifty yards away. “Attention!”
The kriegies pivoted and saw Colonel Lewis MacNamara and Major Clark rapidly striding toward the gathering. Captain Walker Townsend hovered just behind them, pausing at the periphery to watch. At almost the same moment, a squad of German guards, perhaps a half-dozen men, trotted into view, coming around the same corner from the assembly yard that Tommy had passed seconds earlier. They carried rifles and were marching double-time, their boots slapping the dry camp dirt. They were being led by Hauptmann Visser.
The Germans and the two senior American officers arrived at the front of Hut 101 at almost the same moment. The Germans assumed guarded positions, rifles at the half-ready, while Visser stood forward of the squad. The kriegies all snapped to attention, standing ramrod straight in their positions.
MacNamara moved through the crowd slowly, as quiet grew around him, examining the face of each airman. It was as if the SAO were imprinting the name and identity of each man in the mob on his memory. Visser remained halted a few feet back, waiting to see what MacNamara would do. The SAO moved with an angry deliberateness, like an officer conducting an inspection of a particularly slovenly unit. His face was red, his temper clearly ready to burst forth, but the angrier he looked, the more calculated his every motion became. It took him several minutes to reach the steps to Hut 101, where he looked first at Tommy, fixing him with a long, rigid glance, then at Scott, then finally back to Tommy.
“All right,” he said quietly, in a voice that belied his rage, “Hart, please explain. What the hell is going on here?”
Tommy saluted sharply, and replied: “I only just arrived moments ago, sir. I was seeking to ascertain the same answer.”
MacNamara nodded.
“I see,” he said slowly, although he clearly did not see. “Then perhaps Lieutenant Scott can take this opportunity to enlighten me.”
Scott, too, saluted sharply. He hesitated, as if gathering his words, then replied: “Sir. I was challenging these men to a fight, sir.”
“A fight?” MacNamara asked. “All of them?”
“Yes sir. As many as was necessary. Some of them. All of them. It did not make a difference to me. Sir.”
MacNamara shook his head. “Why would you do this, lieutenant?”
“My door, sir.”
“Your door? What about your door, lieutenant?”
Scott paused. He took a deep breath.
“See for yourself, colonel,” he replied.
MacNamara started to respond, then stopped. “Very well,” he said. He took a step forward, only to hear Heinrich Visser’s voice. “I think, colonel, that I shall accompany you.”
The German was making his way through the crowd of men, which parted swiftly to allow him to pass. Visser mounted the steps, nodding toward MacNamara. “Please,” he gestured to Scott, “show us what it is that would prompt a man to attempt to battle such uneven odds.”
Scott eyed the German with disdain. “A fight is a fight, Hauptmann. Sometimes the odds are completely irrelevant to the cause of the fight.”
Visser smiled. “A brave man’s concept, lieutenant. Not a pragmatic man’s.”
MacNamara interrupted sharply. “Scott, lead the way. Now, if you please!”
Tommy was the last through the double doors into Hut 101. The uneven tread of the men echoed in the barracks as they traveled down to the last door, which marked Scott’s quarters. There they paused, staring at the wooden exterior.
In large, deep knife strokes, someone had carved: DIE NIGGER KKK.
“Not even very grammatical,” Lincoln Scott said sourly.
Visser stepped forward, removed a black leather glove from his sole hand, and then slowly ran the tip of his finger over the words, outlining each. He did not speak, and carefully, using his teeth, tugged the glove back into place.
MacNamara’s face was marred by a scowl. He turned to Scott. “Do you have any idea, lieutenant, specifically, who placed these words on your door?”
Scott shook his head. “I left my room only to go and use the Abort. I was not gone for more than a few minutes. When I returned, the message was there.”
“And you thought to take on everyone in sight?” MacNamara asked, still harnessing the fury that leeched onto the edge of each word. “Although you had no real idea who carved the words here when your back was turned.”
Scott hesitated, then nodded. “Yes sir,” he said. “Precisely.”
Behind them, they all suddenly heard the sound of the doors to Hut 101 swinging open, and heavy footsteps in the corridor. All the men gathered in front of Scott’s room pivoted, and saw that Commandant Von Reiter was marching directly toward them. He was accompanied by two junior-grade officers, both of whom kept their hands nervously on the holsters of their pistols. Behind them, trying to remain inconspicuous, but still eager to see, was Fritz Number One. As he had been only a few hours before, Von Reiter was in his dress uniform.
The camp commandant pushed forward and halted a few feet away from the door. For a long, silent moment, he stared at the words, then he turned to MacNamara, as if seeking an explanation.
MacNamara didn’t hesitate.
Pointing a finger directly at the commandant, he spoke briskly and harshly. “This, Herr Oberst, is precisely what I warned you about! Had it not been for the arrival of Lieutenant Hart and myself, we might have had a riot on our hands!”
MacNamara pivoted toward Scott. “Lieutenant, while I can understand your rage—”
“Begging the colonel’s pardon, but I don’t think you can, sir—” Scott started to reply. MacNamara raised a hand, shutting him off.
“We have due process. We have a procedure! We must adhere to regulations! I will not have a riot! I will not allow a lynching! And I will not allow you to be goaded into a fight!”
He switched back instantly to Von Reiter. “I warned you, commandant, that this situation is dangerous. I’m warning you again!”
Von Reiter hissed his reply, equally furious: “You must control your own men, Colonel MacNamara! Or else I will be forced to extreme measures!”
The two men glared at each other. Then, abruptly, MacNamara turned to Tommy. “We will proceed at zero eight hundred on Monday! And this”—he pivoted back to Von Reiter—“I want a new door on this room within the hour! Understand?”
Von Reiter started to reply, then paused, and nodded. He rapidly spoke a few words in German to one of the adjutants, who clicked his heels together, saluted, and hurried down the corridor.
The German commandant said, “Yes. This will be seen to. You, colonel, will take steps to remove the mob outside. Correct?”
MacNamara nodded. “It will be taken care of.”
The Senior American Officer paused, then added ominously, “But the Oberst can see for himself the threats we are all under. Trouble is likely.”
“You will control your men!” Von Reiter said sharply.
“I will do that which is within my power,” MacNamara answered stiffly.
Tommy had a sudden thought, and he stepped quickly forward. “Sir!” he said sharply. “I think it would be appropriate if Lieutenant Scott had the benefit of his counsel around the clock. I am willing to move into his room with him.” Then he turned to the German officer, and added, “And I can think of no better bodyguard than Flying Officer Renaday. I would like permission for him to move from the British compound into this bunk room for the duration of the trial.”
Von Reiter thought momentarily, then shrugged. “If you so desire, and there are no objections from your commanding officer . . .”
MacNamara shook his head. “Probably a good idea,” he said.
“Hauptmann Visser will see to the transfer,” Von Reiter ordered.
“Yes,” Tommy said, staring, with unbridled animosity, at the one-armed German. “He’s good at transfers.” He thought, right at that second, that if there were a way to kill Visser, he would gladly have done it, because all he could see in his mind’s eye was the forlorn face of Phillip Pryce as he was forced into the backseat of the car that took him to what Tommy believed was a swift and lonely death.
Von Reiter took a long measurement of the anger he saw between Tommy and Visser, nodding his head. “All right,” he said to MacNamara. “Dismiss the men. It is nearly time for the evening Appell regardless.”
The Germans then all turned and marched down the corridor. MacNamara took a second to turn to Tommy Hart and Lincoln Scott. “Lieutenant Scott, you have my apologies,” MacNamara said stiffly. “There’s nothing more I can say.”
Scott nodded, and then saluted. “Thank you, sir,” he said, endowing the words with as few thanks as possible.
Then the Senior American Officer turned and followed the Germans down the corridor. For a moment, Tommy and Lincoln Scott remained in the hallway.
“Would you have fought them?” Tommy asked.
“Yes,” Scott replied brusquely. “Of course.”
“And don’t you think that’s precisely what they wanted?” Tommy continued.
“Yes, you’re probably right about that, too,” Scott conceded. “But what choice did I have?”
Tommy didn’t answer this, because he didn’t see any alternative. What he said instead was: “I think it would be a good idea if we stopped doing precisely what everyone who hates you expects you to do.”
Scott opened his mouth to answer, then hesitated, pausing over his words. Then he nodded. “You make a salient point, Hart. I agree.”
Scott stood beside the door to the bunk room, and ushered Tommy inside. “I appreciate your offer,” he said. “But I can—”
Tommy cut him off. “I can put a bunk over against the wall, and Hugh should stay closest to the door. In case there are any others who might want to try something in the night. There aren’t too many who would be willing to fight their way through him to get to you.”
Scott again started to speak, stopped, and then nodded. “Thank you,” he said. Tommy smiled. He guessed that this was the first time he’d heard the black airman use those words with any significant degree of sincerity. He pointed at the wall where he intended to move his bunk. “I’ll just get my stuff,” he said, and then he paused.
A sudden, nasty fear slid through him.
Tommy’s eyes raced around the room, searching the spare and sparse area.
“What is it?” Scott asked, suddenly alarmed by the look on Tommy’s face.
“The board. The board with Vic’s blood on it. That proves he was killed outside the Abort, then moved there. That I left here with you earlier . . .”
Tommy spun about, searching.
“Where the hell is it?”
Scott turned to the farthest corner. “I set it right there,” he said slowly. “It was there when I left to go to the Abort.”
But both men could see that the board had disappeared.
Chapter Ten
FIREWOOD
Immediately after the regular evening Appell, Tommy Hart and Lincoln Scott headed directly for Colonel MacNamara’s quarters. The two men walked swiftly yet silently across the assembly yard and directly into Hut 114, not speaking to anyone else, not speaking between themselves, passing small groups of kriegies getting ready to prepare their dinners. For the most part, the men were carefully assembling various items gleaned from Red Cross parcels, combining foodstuffs—tinned beef or sausage, dried vegetables and fruits, and the ever-present processed milk called Klim that was the basis for virtually every sauce they could concoct. That afternoon, the Germans had provided some kriegsbrot and a meager issue of hard turnips and musty potatoes.
An enterprising kriegie cook could create an incredible range of meals from the materials in a Red Cross parcel, taking chances with ingredients (processed pork roll fried with strawberry jam garnished with tinned fruits). The more successful chefs often posted new recipes on the Stalag Luft Thirteen bulletin boards, and these recipes were attempted and revamped in dozens of different ways throughout the camp. The airmen replaced bulk with invention, and every new kriegie learned to both cook and eat slowly, trying to make each small, inadequate bite both evoke some memory of some fine meal eaten under far better circumstances, and at the same time last far longer than it deserved. No one wolfed down their food in Stalag Luft Thirteen.
As they passed down the central corridor of the hut, Tommy snuck a sideways glance over at Scott. As always, Scott was marching erect, with a tautness to his face that spoke of both anger and aggressiveness. Tommy thought there was some sort of enigmatic toughness to Scott that he did not even begin to understand, which sprang from some well within the man that Tommy doubted he would ever see. In the same instant, he wondered what the black flier thought when he looked over at him. Scott had the rare capacity to make whoever was walking at his side appear smaller. Tommy thought this quality came from what one had seen of life, and how it had been absorbed deep within, and Lincoln Scott had seen much. As for himself, he did not think Vermont and Harvard equaled the journey that Lincoln Scott had traveled, even though both men had arrived in the same place at the same time. There was one thing Tommy knew for sure: Scott still did not look like a prisoner of war. Perhaps he had lost weight—this was inevitable given the stark and bare diet—but there was no look of sullen resignation, nor one of cowed patience, which is its own type of defeat, in his quick dark eyes.
Tommy wondered about himself. Did Stalag Luft Thirteen melt the fighter out of him as surely as it did pounds? Had he lost desire? Assertiveness? Pugnacity? The qualities that made a young man look forward to life. He sometimes dogged himself with questions, wondering whether he would be able to invoke these traits when he needed them most.
Especially now, he thought, when Phillip Pryce is gone, and there is only his memory to remind me when to call on them. Tommy bit down on his lip, wrestling with emotions. It was as hard to imagine Phillip dead as it was to believe him still alive. It was as if the Englishman had been plucked from Tommy’s existence with the finality of death but none of the reality. He’d waved, and then he’d vanished. No explosion. No fire. No shrieks for help. No blood. The portrait in his mind’s eye of the wry, unafraid smile that Phillip wore in that last moment was like a hard blow to his stomach.
Tommy walked quickly and steadily at Lincoln Scott’s side, but inwardly he felt alone.
“You gonna do the talking, Hart? Or should I?”
Scott’s barely constrained ferocity ripped Tommy from his thoughts. He answered instantly. “I’ll start off, but make sure MacNamara knows your feelings. You understand what I’m saying?”
Scott nodded. “Yeah,” he said, lowering his voice. “Be a gentleman, a very pissed-off gentleman, but don’t say anything that insults the bastard, because he’s the judge and he might choose tomorrow’s proceedings as get-even time.”
“That’s close enough,” Tommy said. He reached
out and rapped sharply three times on the Senior American Officer’s door. In the second they paused, waiting, Scott muttered, “I’ll be a gentleman, Hart. But you know, I’m getting tired of being reasonable all the time. I sometimes think I’m gonna be reasonable right up to the moment I hear them give the command to fire.”
“I’m not sure you have been,” Tommy replied weakly, and Scott snorted, amused.
They heard a voice call for them to enter, and Scott swung open the door. Lewis MacNamara was seated in a distant corner of the room, his stockinged feet up on his bunk, a pair of scratched and bent reading glasses slid down on his nose. He had a tin plate of half-eaten ubiquitous kriegie stew on the blanket beside him, and a dog-eared copy of Dickens’s Great Expectations open in his hand. Tommy recognized this combination instantly. Standard kriegie approach to eating: take a bite, chew slowly, read a paragraph or two, take another bite. Sometimes it seemed that Time was as much their enemy as the Germans.
MacNamara slowly lowered the novel, eyeing the two visitors with interest, as they took several quick steps into the center of the small room, and fixed themselves at attention. The Senior American Officer had, by virtue of rank, acquired one of the rare two-person bunk rooms. But Major Clark, his roommate, was oddly absent. Tommy had the presence of mind to glance around, thinking maybe there would be some picture on the wall or souvenir propped in the corner that might tell him something about the SAO’s personality that he could later use. But there was nothing that revealed anything.
“Lieutenants . . .” MacNamara said as he touched his forehead with a return salute. “Please, stand at ease. Why are you here?”
“Sir. We wish to report a theft, sir,” Tommy answered sharply.
“A theft?”
“Correct.”
“Please continue.”
“A key piece of evidence acquired by myself, which I planned to introduce at trial tomorrow, was removed from Mr. Scott’s quarters. We suspect this theft took place during the time he was confronting the men in front of Hut 101. Sir, we protest this action in the most vigorous way!”
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