The German didn’t reply, although Tommy could sense that he had recognized Tommy’s voice. Instead, he kicked and struggled and grasped at his pistol. He also brought all his teeth crunching down into the soft flesh of Tommy’s left hand, biting deeply into the skin.
The pain shot through Tommy as teeth tore through muscle and tendon, searching for bone. He groaned as a sheet of red agony nearly blinded him.
But he fought on, pushing his now ravaged hand deeper into the German’s throat. With his free hand, he found Visser’s wrist. He could sense from the weight that the German had almost managed to free the pistol, and was directing all his strength to withdrawing it and firing a shot.
Tommy understood, even though his head was filled with nothing but hurt and he could feel blood pulsing from his hand, that merely firing a shot into the air could kill him as effectively as putting the barrel to his chest and firing a shot into his heart. So he ignored the growing fury of the pain in his left hand, and concentrated on the German’s only arm, and the effort it was making to reach the pistol butt and trigger. In the oddest of ways, the entire war, years long, millions of deaths, a struggle between cultures and nations, came down, for Tommy, to the single fight to control that pistol. He ignored the savagery Visser’s teeth were wreaking on his left hand and fought only for the smallest victory, over that pistol. He could sense Visser’s fingers straining to reach the trigger guard, and he furiously pulled back. The Mauser seemed balanced, partway free of the stiff and shiny black leather holster. Its cumbersome shape and heavy weight were the smallest of advantages in Tommy’s favor, but Visser’s strength was considerable. The German was a powerfully built man, and much of his strength was concentrated in that sole remaining arm, and Tommy could sense that the balance of this fight within the fight was shifting in Visser’s favor.
And so he took a chance. Instead of pulling back, he suddenly thrust forward, twisting with his hand. Visser’s fingers jammed against the trigger guard, and one of them abruptly snapped. The German moaned in pain, pushing the guttural sound past Tommy’s bloody left hand that still threatened to choke him.
The Mauser seemed to teeter on the edge of possession, and then tumbled away, falling into the moss and dirt of the forest, its black metal body immediately swallowed up by the surrounding darkness.
Visser knew the gun was lost, and so he redoubled his fight, crunching down again with his teeth, destroying much of Tommy’s left hand, and flailing away with his right. The German tried to struggle up, but Tommy’s legs wrapped around him, so that they fought almost as close as lovers, but with murder their only kiss.
Tommy ignored the punches that crashed painfully against him, ignored the agony that shot from his hand, and pulled Visser back. He had never been trained in how to kill a man with his hands, had never even considered it. The only fights he’d had growing up were shoving and pushing matches that relied mostly on angry words and insults and usually ended with one or both boys in tears. No fight he had ever experienced, not even the battle in the tunnel earlier that night, when he’d fought for the truth, seemed as concentrated as this one. None were even as deadly as the battles that Lincoln Scott fought, gloved and refereed, in a boxing ring.
This, he knew, was something far different. It was a fight that had only one answer. The German punched and kicked and crushed down with his teeth, tearing away at the flesh of Tommy’s hand, but Tommy suddenly felt no more pain at all. It was as if a total coldness of instinct and desire overwhelmed him in those few seconds and he gritted his teeth and started to pull back as hard as he could on the German’s neck, working his right knee into the small of Visser’s back for leverage.
Visser instantly felt the threat, felt the strain filling his neck, and struggled to break free. He clawed with every ounce of hatred he could muster to overcome the fierce grip that Tommy held on him. If he’d had two arms, the fight would have ended swiftly in the German’s favor, but the Spitfire bullet that took Visser’s arm had crippled him in other ways, too. For an instant, they teetered on the edge of indecision, one man’s strength against the other, each man’s body twisted as taut and stiff as dried leather.
Visser mounted one great surge, biting, kicking, pounding with his free hand. The blows crashed down on Tommy, who closed his eyes and pulled harder, realizing that to slip even the smallest measure would cost him the fight and his life.
And then Tommy heard a sickening crack.
The sound of Visser’s back snapping was perhaps the ugliest, most urgent sound he’d heard in his entire life. The German gasped once in the astonishment of death before going limp in Tommy’s arms, and it was another few seconds before Tommy let slide the unconscious man’s body.
He pulled his left hand free from Visser’s mouth. The pain redoubled, almost unbearably, and for a second he felt his own head swimming, on the edge of blackness himself. He leaned back, clutching his torn and bloody hand to his chest. The night around them seemed suddenly pristine, utterly quiet. He put his head back and took in a deep breath of air, trying to regain his own senses, struggling to impose order and reason on the world around him.
He became aware slowly of the other sounds nearby. The first was that Visser was still breathing. Tommy realized then that he had to finish the job. And for perhaps the first time in his life, he prayed that the German would die before he was forced to steal the unconscious and dying man’s last breath. “Please die,” he whispered.
And this the German did, rattling once softly.
Relief flooded Tommy, and he almost burst out in a laugh. He looked up into the stars and sky, and saw that there was the smallest suggestion of light beginning to streak across the eastern horizon. It is an astonishing thing, he thought, to be alive when you have no right to be.
His hand was throbbing with pain. He could sense that Visser’s teeth had nearly severed one, maybe more, of his fingers, which flopped uselessly against his chest. The flesh of his fist was torn and ripped. Blood pulsed over his shirt and surges of pain raced up his forearm and clouded his head.
He knew he had to bind the wound, and he bent over to Visser’s inert body. He quickly found a silken handkerchief in the dead German’s tunic pocket. Tommy wrapped this as tightly as he could around his hand to try to stem the bleeding.
Tommy tried to sort through the situation. He knew only that much was at risk, but his exhaustion and pain prevented him from thinking altogether clearly. He could remember only that there were men still waiting in the tunnel, and that now the escape was even more behind schedule, so he determined that the only thing he could do was get it back up and moving, and although fatigue and hurt filled every fiber of his body, that was what he decided to do.
But although he made this decision deep within himself, he was at first unable to get his ravaged muscles to respond. He stole one more breath of air, trying to push himself to his feet, only to slump back against a nearby tree. He told himself that it would be all right to rest for just a second and he started to close his eyes, only to feel a sudden shaft of fear crash through him. His eyes went almost blind with cold terror.
The flashlight’s beam, which had been swallowed up by the forest, suddenly rose, ghostlike, a few feet away, swung around once, as it renewed its awful search, and then, before he could gather any of whatever remaining strength he possessed to scramble for cover, landed directly on his face.
Death is a trickster, Tommy thought. Just when you think you have it fooled, it turns the tables on you. He leaned back and lifted his good hand in front of his eyes to deflect the light and the shot he expected to hear within seconds.
But what he heard, instead, was a familiar voice.
“Mr. Hart! My God! What are you doing here?”
Tommy smiled and shook his head, unable to answer Fritz Number One’s most sensible question. He made a small gesture with his good hand, and in the same second the ferret’s light captured the twisted form of the German officer, lying prone a few feet away.
&nbs
p; “My God!” the ferret whispered.
Tommy leaned back, closing his eyes. He did not think he had the strength to fight again. He could hear Fritz Number One gasping, repeating, now in German, “Mein Gott! Mein Gott!” and then adding, “Escape!” as the ferret sorted through what was happening. Tommy was only slightly aware that Fritz Number One was tearing at his own holstered sidearm, and reaching for the ubiquitous whistle that all the ferrets carried in their tunic pockets. He wanted to shout a warning to Number Nineteen, waiting at the top rung of the ladder inside the tunnel, but he didn’t even have the strength for that.
He waited for the sound of the alarm.
It did not come.
Tommy slowly opened his eyes, and saw Fritz Number One standing beside Visser’s body. The ferret had the whistle at his lips, and his own weapon in his hand. Then Fritz slowly turned and stared at Tommy, the whistle still pointed at his mouth.
“They will shoot you, Mr. Hart,” he whispered. “To kill a German officer while attempting to escape . . .”
“I know,” Tommy said. “Didn’t have a choice.”
Fritz raised the whistle to his lips, then stopped, slowly lowering it. He swung the flashlight beam toward the hole in the earth that Tommy had protected, and let it linger on the rope tied to the tree. “My God,” he said again, softly.
Tommy remained silent. He did not understand why the ferret had not summoned assistance and sounded the alarm.
Fritz Number One seemed to be trapped in thought, assessing, measuring, weighing details and debts. Then, suddenly, he bent down toward Tommy and whispered sharply: “Tell the men in the tunnel the escape is finished! Kaput! Over! Go back to their barracks immediately! The alarm is about to sound. Tell them this now, Mr. Hart. It is your only chance!”
Tommy caught his breath. He wasn’t certain what the German was doing, but he recognized he was being given some sort of an opportunity, and he seized at it. Not certain from where he managed to summon the energy, he scrambled across the mossy forest grass to the edge of the tunnel. He leaned over and saw the upturned face of Number Nineteen, waiting.
“Krauts!” Tommy whispered urgently. “Everywhere! Everybody back up fast! The jig is up for tonight!”
“Shit!” Number Nineteen swore under his breath. “Goddamn it to hell!” he added, but he didn’t hesitate. Number Nineteen dropped swiftly through the narrow tunnel shaft and started to crawl back down the tunnel. Tommy could hear the muffled sound of conversation when Nineteen met Twenty, but could not make out the words, though he knew what they had to be.
He rolled over, and saw that Fritz Number One stood a few feet away. He had extinguished the flashlight, but there was just enough of the first light of morning beginning to creep through the tops of the trees to give his form a dark and ghostly outline. The ferret was waving toward Tommy urgently.
Tommy half-crawled, half-ran, back to where the ferret stood.
“There is only one chance for you, Mr. Hart. Bring the body and follow me, now. Do not ask any questions, but hurry!”
Tommy shook his head. “My hand,” he said. “I don’t think I have the strength . . .”
“Then you will die here,” Fritz Number One replied flatly. “The choice is yours, Mr. Hart. But you must make it now. I cannot touch the Hauptmann’s body. Either lift it now, or die beside him. But, I think, it would be wrong to let a man such as he kill you, Mr. Hart.”
Tommy inhaled deeply. His imagination flooded with images of home, of school, of Lydia. He remembered his captain from Texas with his flat, dry laughter: Find us the way home, Tommy, willya? And Phillip Pryce, with his own sniffling sort of joy in the smallest and smartest of things. He thought right then that only a true coward turns his back on a chance at life, no matter how hard and slender that chance might be. And so, knowing that his reserves were well past exhaustion, with only the strength of desire remaining to him, Tommy bent down and with a great grunt, managed to sling the German officer’s body over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The body crunched sickeningly, and for a moment Tommy thought he might throw up. Then, staggering, he lifted himself to his feet, struggling to maintain his balance.
“Now, quickly,” Fritz Number One urged. “You must beat the morning light or all will be lost!”
Tommy smiled at the German’s archaic turn of phrase, but saw as well that the gray streaks of dawn flitting on the horizon were taking root, growing stronger with each second. He took a single step forward, half-stumbled, righted himself, and with what little voice he had, said, “Go ahead. I’m ready now.”
Fritz Number One nodded, then pushed forward, deeper into the forest.
Tommy struggled after the German. Visser’s weight was crushing, almost as if, even in death, the German was fighting to kill him.
Branches tore at his face. Tree roots threatened to trip him. The forest ripped and grabbed at his every step, slowing him, trying to knock him to the ground. Tommy pushed through, slogging beneath the dead weight, fighting with every stride to maintain his balance, searching with every foot forward for the strength to go another.
His breathing was coming in exhausted short bursts. Sweat clogged his eyes. The pain in his left hand was nearly unbearable. It throbbed and surged and sent fierce reminders searing through the rest of his body. It seemed to Tommy that he had no more strength, and then he would refuse to admit this and he would find just a little more, enough to stumble forward a few more feet.
He had no idea how far they traveled. Fritz Number One turned and urged him, “Quickly, Mr. Hart! Quickly. Not much farther!” and with those words, Tommy battled ahead. Visser on his shoulder no longer seemed like something of this world; instead, he was like some great black crushing evil, trying to defeat him.
Just when he reached the point where he did not think he could travel another foot, he saw Fritz Number One abruptly stop, and kneel down. The German gestured for Tommy to come forward next to him. Tommy staggered these few yards, and then dropped to the earth.
“Where . . .” he managed, but Fritz hushed him.
“Quiet. There are guards nearby. Can you not smell where you are?”
Tommy wiped his face with his good hand and breathed in through his nose. Only then did he become aware of the mingled smells of human waste and death that clogged the forest air around them. He looked at Fritz Number One quizzically.
“The Russian work camp!” Fritz whispered.
Then the German pointed.
“Take the body as close as you dare and leave it. Be quiet, Mr. Hart. The guards here will not hesitate to shoot at any noise. And put this in the Hauptmann’s hand.”
Fritz Number One reached into his own tunic pocket and removed the Russian belt buckle that he had tried to trade to Tommy days earlier. Tommy nodded. He took the buckle, turned, and dragged Visser’s body onto his shoulder. He fought forward, only to have Fritz Number One hold out his hand. The ferret stared at Visser’s dead eyes.
“Gestapo!” he muttered. Then he spat once into the murdered man’s face. “Now, go, and be quick!”
Tommy battled through the trees. The smell was nearly overwhelming. He could just make out a small opening, almost a glade, perhaps two dozen yards from the makeshift barbed wire and sharpened stakes of the Russian work encampment. There was nothing of permanence in the Russian area; after all, the men it was designed to hold were not expected to survive the war, and there was no Red Cross organization in Geneva ostensibly monitoring their conditions.
To his right, he heard a dog bark. A pair of voices tripped the air around him.
He thought: This is as far as I dare.
With a great shrug, he tossed Visser’s body to the earth. It thudded, then lay still. He bent over, thrust the Russian belt buckle into the German’s dead fingers, then stepped back and wondered for a moment if he had truly hated Visser enough to kill him, and then understood that that wasn’t really what counted. What counted was that Visser was dead and he was still clinging precariously to life.
Then, without another look at the dead man’s face, he turned, and moving as quietly, yet as swiftly, as he could, returned to the spot where Fritz Number One remained.
The German nodded when he arrived.
“You may have a chance, now, Mr. Hart,” he said. “But still, we must hurry.”
The return through the forest was faster, but Tommy thought he was closing in on delirium. A breeze sliding through the treetops whispered at him, almost mocking his exhaustion. Shadows were lengthening around him, like dozens of searchlights trying to seize hold of his face, expose him. Kill him. His hand screamed obscenities of hurt, trying to blind him with pain.
It was the moment of the morning when dawn seems to decide to insist on taking hold of the day. Black fades to gray, and the first streaks of blue were soaring through the sky, chasing away all the stars that had been so comforting to him earlier. From a few feet distant, Tommy could easily make out the black hole of the tunnel exit.
Fritz Number One stopped, hiding behind a tree. He pointed at the tunnel. He took Tommy by the arm.
“Mr. Hart,” he whispered sharply, “Hauptmann Visser would have had me shot when he learned that it was I who traded the weapon that killed Trader Vic. The weapon that you returned to me. I was in your debt, but now, tonight, that debt is paid. Understand?”
Tommy nodded.
“Now we are, how you say, equal?” the ferret added.
“Even Steven,” Tommy replied.
The German looked slightly surprised.
“Who is Steven?”
“It’s another figure of speech, Fritz. When things are all equal, we say they’re ‘Even Steven’. . . .” Tommy smiled, thinking that he had finally gone completely crazy with exhaustion, for now he was giving an English lesson.
The ferret grinned. “Even Steven. I will remember this, too. There is much this night to remember.”
He pointed at the hole.
“Now, Mr. Hart, I will count to sixty, and then I will blow the alarm.”
Tommy nodded. He pushed himself up and raced to the hole. He did not look back, but instead, almost threw himself back into the darkness, his feet finding the rungs of the homemade ladder, and climbing down into the pit. He fell to the dirt at the bottom, the pain in his hand screaming insults at him. Without thinking of all the terrors he remembered from childhood, or any of the terrors that night had held, Tommy thrust himself down the tunnel. There were no lights, not even a stray candle left behind to guide him. It was all a great and infinite blackness, mocking the dawn that was lighting the world beyond his reach.
Hart's War Page 56