Hart's War

by John Katzenbach

  Again, MacNamara continued to stare at Tommy, as the young navigator sat back down.

  Lincoln Scott whispered to him, then, in a voice that contained a grin that was hidden from his lips and the men who were eyeing them. “I like that one, Hart. I definitely like it. Won’t work, of course, but I truly like it. And anyways, what would I want with another lawyer?”

  To their right, Walker Townsend arose. MacNamara nodded toward him and the easygoing, slightly accented words of the prosecutor filled the air.

  “What my colleague suggests is not unreasonable, Your Honor, although I would argue that Lieutenant Hart has already amply demonstrated his abilities in the courtroom. But I do believe that throughout much of the defense’s preparation they were assisted quite ably by a senior British officer, who is also a well-known barrister in that nation, sir, fully versed in all the diverse elements of criminal proceedings—”

  Tommy immediately leapt up, slicing off the southerner’s words.

  “And who was summarily removed from the camp by the German authorities!”

  He angled forward, staring at Visser.

  “And probably murdered!”

  This word pitched the gathering of kriegies into hubbub and turmoil. A tangle of voices cascaded through the room. Visser didn’t budge. He did, however, slowly reach for one of his long, brown cigarettes, which he took his time to remove and ignite, carefully manipulating the package and then the lighter with his only arm and hand.

  “There is no evidence of that!” Townsend replied, his voice raised slightly.

  “Indeed,” Colonel MacNamara added. “And the Germans have given their assurances—”

  “Assurances, sir?” Tommy interrupted. “What assurances?”

  “The German authorities have assured us that Wing Commander Pryce was to be safely repatriated,” MacNamara said sternly.

  Tommy felt an ice-cold anger within his stomach. For a moment, he was almost blinded by outrage. There was, he realized, absolutely no reason whatsoever for the Senior American Officer at Stalag Luft Thirteen to have any knowledge at all about Phillip Pryce’s removal from the camp. Pryce was under British jurisdiction and their own chain of command. That MacNamara had received an assurance, no matter what sort, meant only that they were somehow involved in his removal. This recognition battered him, and for a moment he staggered inwardly, trying to assess what it truly meant. But he had no time for reflection, so instead, he blurted out:

  “They are our sworn enemy, sir. Whatever assurances they might have given to you must be interpreted in that light.”

  He paused, then demanded: “Why would you think they would not lie? Especially to cover up a crime?”

  Again MacNamara glared at Tommy. He banged a few times on his homemade gavel, although the kriegies in the courtroom had already quieted. The hammering sound echoed slightly.

  “I do remember that fact, lieutenant, and there is no need for you to remind me. No delays!” he burst out. “Opening statements!”

  The SAO turned to Walker Townsend. “You are ready, captain?”

  Townsend nodded.

  “Then proceed! Without further interruption, Lieutenant Hart!”

  Tommy started to open his mouth, as if to reply, though in reality he had nothing he wanted to say, having already accomplished what he wished, which was to put everyone in the camp on notice that whatever they thought, convicting Scott wasn’t going to be a milk run. And so, he sat down, still troubled by what he’d heard so far. He stole a quick glance over at Townsend, who seemed to be slightly flustered by the defense’s first salvos. But Townsend was a veteran, Tommy could see, of both the courtroom and combat, and within a few seconds had composed himself. He took several strides to the center of the room, half-turning so that he was addressing the tribunal, the assembled airmen, and, in part, the German observers. He was about to begin when there was a small disturbance from the rear of the theater building. Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy saw Visser slam his chair upright and rise to his feet. So did the stenographer, instantly coming to attention. MacNamara and the other members of the tribunal all rose, and this prompted Tommy to reach out and grasp Lincoln Scott by the sleeve, and the two of them also stood. As they did, they heard the rat-a-tat sound of well-heeled boots coming down the center aisle, and they half-turned and saw Commandant Von Reiter, as usual accompanied by a pair of adjutants, approaching the makeshift courtroom.

  It was MacNamara who spoke first.

  “Commandant,” he said. “I was not aware you planned to attend this session.”

  Von Reiter threw a single glance over at Visser’s instantly scowling face, then replied with an offhand wave, “But Colonel MacNamara, the opportunity to witness the famed American style of justice is rare indeed! Alas, my duties will not permit me to attend the entirety of the trial. But I will be pleased to come when I can manage. Surely, this would not be a problem?”

  MacNamara allowed a small smile of his own to slide across his face. “Of course not, commandant. You are welcome at any time. I only wish that I had made arrangements for a seat.”

  “I will be pleased to stand,” Von Reiter said. “And please, keep in mind that Hauptmann Visser is the official observer for the Reich as provided by Luftwaffe High Command. My presence is merely, well, how shall I say it? Merely to satisfy my own curiosity about these matters. Be so kind as to continue.”

  Von Reiter smiled and moved to the side of the theater building. Several kriegies quickly moved to make a space for him, jamming themselves amid their own countrymen to avoid coming into contact with the austere German commandant, almost as if the sense of ancient aristocracy that he wore was somehow a disease best avoided by the democratic citizen-soldiers of the air corps. Von Reiter seemed aware of the shuffling, and he leaned up against the wall with a bemused look on his face.

  The SAO returned to his seat, gesturing for the others to do the same. Then he nodded at Walker Townsend.

  “You were about to begin, Captain. . . .”

  “Yes sir. I will be brief, Your Honor. The prosecution expects to demonstrate that Lieutenant Lincoln Scott and Captain Vincent Bedford experienced a sense of racial animosity from the former’s arrival at the camp. This animosity manifested itself in a number of incidents, including at least one outright fight, when Captain Bedford accused Lieutenant Scott of stealing from him. Numerous witnesses will testify to this. It is the prosecution’s contention that Mr. Scott, in fear for his own life because of threats made by Captain Bedford, manufactured a weapon, stalked Bedford, finally confronted him in the Abort located between Huts 101 and 102 at a time when all prisoners are required to be in their barracks, that they fought and Captain Bedford was killed. Lieutenant Scott, the evidence will show, had the desire and the means to commit this murder, Your Honor. The evidence that the prosecution will bring is overwhelming. Sadly, there is no other logical conclusion to the events that have unfolded.”

  Walker Townsend let this last sentence fill the theater. He took a single, quick glance over toward Von Reiter, then back to MacNamara. Then he sat down.

  MacNamara nodded, then looked over at Tommy Hart.

  “Mr. Hart? Your opening statement, if you please.”

  Tommy rose, words beginning to form in his imagination, outrage and indignation filling his gorge, and then he took a deep breath. The hesitation allowed him a second, no more, to think, and he roped in his emotions.

  “Your Honor,” he said with a small smile, “the defense in this matter will reserve the right to make its opening statement until the completion of the prosecution’s case.”

  MacNamara stared at Tommy.

  “That is unusual,” he said. “I’m not sure—”

  “We have the absolute right, under military law, to postpone our opening,” Tommy said swiftly, not having any idea at all whether he was right or wrong. “We are under no obligation to display our defense to the prosecution until such time that it becomes our turn to present it.”

  A
gain MacNamara hesitated. Then he shrugged.

  “As you wish, lieutenant. Then we will proceed with the first witness.”

  To MacNamara’s left, Commandant Von Reiter took a step forward. The SAO turned toward him, and the German, still wearing a small smile that lingered on the corners of his upper lip, spoke out: “Do I understand that Lieutenant Hart is permitted to not offer his defense at this time? That he can wait for perhaps a more advantageous moment?”

  MacNamara replied, “Yes. That is correct, Herr Oberst.”

  Von Reiter laughed dryly. “How clever,” he said, making a small gesture toward Tommy. “But, alas, that is what I was most interested in hearing. So, colonel, if you will excuse me now, I will return at some later time. For I am greatly familiar with the prosecution’s contentions concerning Lieutenant Scott. But it is the replies that have been constructed by Lieutenant Hart that intrigue me far more.”

  The German commandant raised two fingers to the brim of his cap in a languid salute. “With your leave, colonel . . .” he said.

  “Of course, commandant.”

  “Hauptmann Visser, I leave this in your hands.”

  Visser, who had once again risen to his feet, clicked his heels together sharply, the sound echoing above the crowd.

  Von Reiter, as always trailed by his two doglike adjutants, then stepped from the courtroom, the eyes of the assembled Allied prisoners following him. As his bootsteps faded, MacNamara bellowed, “Call your first witness!”

  Tommy watched, as Townsend stepped forward, and thought to himself that what he’d seen had seemed most theatrical. He had the sensation that he was observing a well-acted play being performed by experts, but using some strange and indecipherable language, so that while he could understand many of the actions, the overall thrust of the words eluded him. This, he considered, was a very strange reaction to have.

  Then he slid this sensation into an internal compartment, for examination later, and he focused on the arrival of the first witness.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE FIRST LIE

  The prosecution built their case against Scott steadily throughout the day, closely following the progression that Tommy had expected. Bedford’s overt racism, needling, taunting, accusations, and Deep South prejudice emerged in tale after tale from witness after witness. Set against that was the near-constant portrayal of Lincoln Scott as a man isolated, alone, enraged, being baited into a deadly action by the constancy of Trader Vic’s derision.

  The problem, as Tommy saw it, was that calling a man a nigger wasn’t a crime. Nor was calling a man who had repeatedly put his own life on the line for white aircrews a nigger a crime, even if it should have been. What was a crime, was murder, and throughout the day, the tribunal, the German observers, and all the assembled kriegies of Stalag Luft Thirteen heard nothing from the witness stand except what they would all consider to be a perfectly reasonable motive for that desperate act of killing.

  It made a sort of crazy deadly sense: Trader Vic was a thoughtless bastard, and Scott wasn’t able to ignore it. Or get away from it. And so he killed the southerner before Bedford took the opportunity to turn his own virulent hatred into action and now Scott should die for that preemptive strike. Tommy wondered whether this wasn’t some variation on a plot that had already played itself out in dozens of forgotten rural courtrooms from Florida, through Georgia, into the Carolinas, across to Tennessee and Arkansas, Mississippi and Alabama. Anywhere the Stars and Bars continued to fly.

  That it was happening in a Bavarian forest seemed to him to be as awful and as inexplicable as anything else.

  At the defense table, he listened while another witness walked through the crowded courtroom to take his place at the stand.

  The trial had stretched into the late afternoon, and Tommy scratched some notes on one of his precious sheets of paper, trying to prepare a cross-examination, thinking how compelling the prosecution’s case was. The vise that Scott was captured within was truly intractable: No matter how outrageous or evil Trader Vic’s treatment of the Tuskegee airman had been, it still didn’t amount to a justification for his killing. Instead, the situation played directly into the most subtle of fears felt by many of the white members of the air corps: that Lincoln Scott was somehow a threat to all of them, a threat to their futures, and a threat to their lives—all because he unapologetically wore his difference on his skin. Lincoln Scott, with all his intelligence, athleticism, and arrogance, had been turned into more of an enemy than the Germans manning the guard towers. Tommy believed this transformation was the crux of the prosecution, and he remained at a loss as to how to explode it. He knew he had to make Scott seem to be one of them. A simple kriegie. A POW. Suffering the same. Fearful of the same. Lonely and depressed and wondering if he would ever get home again, just the same as every other man in the camp.

  The problem was, Tommy realized, that when he put Scott on the stand, the black flier would inevitably be himself: razor-sharp, muscular, and determined, uncompromising and tough. Lincoln Scott would no more be willing to show himself to be as vulnerable as the rest of them than would some spy captured by the Gestapo. And Tommy thought there was little chance that any of the men craning to hear every word coming from the witness stand would understand that at Stalag Luft Thirteen they were all in their own unique ways alike. No better than any other man. No worse.

  He had managed, he thought, some inroads. He made a point of bringing out from every witness that it was never Scott who initiated the tension between him and Vic. He also underscored, with every man who took the stand, that Scott got nothing special. No extra food. No extra privileges. Nothing that made his life any better, and much, thanks to Vincent Bedford, that made his life far more miserable.

  But while bringing this out might help, it still didn’t attack the essence of the case. Sympathy was not doubt, and Tommy knew this. Sympathy was also not a defense, especially for an innocent man. In fact, he understood that in some ways it made matters worse. Every kriegie in the camp had, at one time or another, wondered where his own breaking point might lie. Where all the fear and deprivation they faced daily would overcome whatever control they had. They’d all seen it, when men went wire-crazy and tried to blitz out, only to end up, if they were lucky, in the cooler or, if they were unlucky, in the burial ground behind Hut 113. What the prosecution was building slowly toward was finding Scott’s breaking point.

  In front of him, Colonel MacNamara was swearing in the witness. The man raised his hand and took an oath to tell the truth, just as he would in a regular courtroom. MacNamara, Tommy thought, was being a stickler for the details and trappings of authenticity. He wanted the proceedings to seem real and not some makeshift jury-rigged prisoner-of-war camp construction.

  “State your name for the record,” MacNamara boomed, as if there were an official record, as the witness sat stiffly in the chair and Walker Townsend began to hover close by. The witness was one of the roommates. Murphy, the lieutenant from Springfield, Massachusetts, who had confronted Tommy in the corridor. One of the men making the most trouble over the past weeks. He was a slightly built man, in his early twenties, with a few leftover childhood freckles still playing on his cheeks. He had deep red hair, and he was missing a tooth, which he tried to cover up when he smiled, giving his face a lopsided appearance.

  Tommy checked his notes. Lieutenant Murphy was in the middle of the list of witnesses Townsend had provided, but he was being called out of order. Threats and animosity between the deceased and the accused. No love lost, whatsoever. That was what Tommy saw in his notes. He knew, as well, that Murphy had been one of the men who’d seen him with the bloodstained board. But he suspected the lieutenant would lie about it, if he tried to ask him.

  “This will be our final witness for the day,” MacNamara announced. “Correct, captain?”

  Walker Townsend nodded. “Yes sir,” he replied. He had a small smile flitting across his lips. The prosecutor hesitated, then had Murphy describe how h
e arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen. He also had the lieutenant provide a modicum of information about himself, blending the two, so that Murphy’s story would seem to every man in the theater to be no different from his own.

  As the witness began to speak, Tommy was not paying very close attention. He was still riveted by the idea that he knew that he was closer to the truth about how Trader Vic died, though the why still eluded all of them. The difficulty was how he was to get this alternate version out from the witness stand, and he remained at a loss as to how he could accomplish this. Scott was the one who’d accompanied him on the nocturnal visit to the site where he believed the killing had taken place. But Scott was the last person he wanted to tell that tale from the witness stand. It would appear self-serving and fantastic. It would seem as if Scott was merely lying to protect himself. Without the bloodstained board to back up his story, it would seem nothing more than a not particularly well concocted lie.

  He felt almost sick. The truth is transparent. Lies have substance.

  Tommy sighed, breathing in deeply, as Walker Townsend patiently continued to ask mundane background questions of Murphy, who answered every one with a quick eagerness.

  I’m losing, he thought.

  Worse. Every minute, an innocent man takes a stride closer to a firing squad.

  He stole a sideways glance at Scott. He knew the black flier understood this. But the iron in his face remained constant. An expression of deeply muted anger.

  “Now, lieutenant,” Townsend said loudly, gesturing at the man on the witness chair, then pausing, as if trying to impart some added weight to his question, “you hail from the state of Massachusetts, do you not?”

  Tommy, still troubled by all the divergent thoughts crashing around within him, was still only half paying attention. Townsend had this languorous, slow-paced style to his queries, a sort of nonchalant, genteel approach that lulled the defense into some state of unobservant quiet. Prosecutors, Tommy understood, liked weight of testimony every bit as much as they liked drama. Ten people steadily saying the same thing over and over was far better than one person delivering it theatrically.