Hart's War

by John Katzenbach

  It was, however, not a fantasy when the cell door was thrust open. Tommy looked up through cloudy, bleary eyes, and saw the unmistakable form of Hugh Renaday lurching through the entranceway.

  “Bloody hell!” Hugh blurted, as he bent toward Tommy, who was unable to rise from his spot on the floor.

  Tommy smiled through the hurt. “Hugh. I thought you’d . . .”

  “Bought it? Damn close. That bastard Visser ordered me shot. Lucky thing Von Reiter wouldn’t go along with it. So I’m still alive and kicking, my friend.”

  “What about the others?”

  “What others?”

  “The men who got out. . . .”

  Hugh grinned. “The bloody Krauts caught ten guys wandering around in the forest lost as newborn babes that morning. Another five men were arrested at the station, waiting for the second train through. Seems like there was some problem with the tickets that got forged and the Gestapo didn’t have any trouble picking them out of the crowds. But three guys, the first three up and out of the tunnel, are still missing and unaccounted for. Their tickets must have been acceptable and their train pulled in and took off before the alarm was sounded. Lots of rumors around, but nothing definite.”

  Tommy nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “They were lucky.”

  “Luck? Hell, who knows? Oh, and our boy Fritz Number One, he got a medal and a raise. He’s now a sergeant, and he gets to wear one of those shiny black crosses around his neck. He’s been strutting around the camp like the cock o’ the roost, as you can imagine.”

  Hugh reached down and thrust his hands around Tommy, lifting him as he spoke. “Come on now, counselor. We’re getting you out of here,” he said.

  “Scott and Fenelli?”

  “They’re getting out, too.”

  Tommy smiled. “Good, good,” he said weakly. “Hugh, my hand . . .”

  The Canadian clenched his teeth. “Hang in there, lad. We’re going to get you some help.”

  The cooler corridor was crowded with rifle-bearing German guards. Hugh half-carried Tommy from the cell, where Lincoln Scott reached over and wordlessly took half the burden of Tommy’s weight. Tommy felt skeletal, almost rubber-legged, when he tried to walk, as if each joint in his body had somehow worked itself loose and no longer held him together.

  Fenelli was cursing under his breath, leading them out of the cooler block into the sunlight outside. All the men blinked at the sudden blast of brightness, and inhaled the warm air greedily. There were more Germans waiting for them, as well as Colonel MacNamara and Major Clark, who paced back and forth in front of the cooler building, impatiently.

  “How is he?” Colonel MacNamara instantly demanded of Fenelli.

  “He’s hurting bad,” the medic replied.

  MacNamara nodded, then pointed toward the camp administration building. “Right in there,” he said. “Von Reiter is waiting.”

  With Tommy at the center of the odd procession, the men were ushered directly into Commandant Von Reiter’s office. The German officer was seated behind his immaculate desk as usual, but he rose when they entered. He straightened his uniform self-consciously and clicked his heels together, bowing slightly at the waist. A studied, tight performance.

  The kriegies, with the exception of Tommy, all saluted.

  Von Reiter gestured toward a chair, and Tommy was helped into it by Fenelli and Lincoln Scott, who stood directly behind him.

  The German cleared his throat and stared again at Tommy’s disfigured hand. “You do poorly, Lieutenant Hart?” he asked.

  Tommy laughed through all the hurt. “Had better days,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Colonel MacNamara stepped forward, speaking sharply, his back rigid, his face set with furious demand. “I want this man attended to immediately! His wounds are serious, as you can easily see. Under the Geneva Convention, he is entitled to proper medical care! I warn you, commandant, this situation is of critical importance. We will tolerate no further delays—”

  Von Reiter held up his palm.

  “Lieutenant Hart will receive the best of care. I have made the necessary arrangements. I apologize for the delay, but these are delicate matters.”

  “Well, every minute we delay further endangers this officer!”

  Von Reiter nodded. “Yes, yes, colonel, this I can see. But much has happened and while we are eager to be efficient, there are some questions that remain. Mr. Hart? You are perhaps capable of answering a few questions? So that the paperwork I send to my superiors will be complete.”

  Tommy tried to shrug.

  “He doesn’t have to answer anything,” Major Clark blurted.

  Von Reiter sighed. “Major, please, indulge me. You have not heard the questions yet.”

  The commandant allowed a second or two of silence to penetrate the room. Then he turned back to Tommy Hart.

  “Lieutenant, do you know who murdered Captain Vincent Bedford of the United States Army Air Corps?”

  Tommy smiled. He nodded and replied weakly, “Yes, I do.”

  “It was not Lieutenant Scott?”

  Before Tommy could reply to this, Colonel MacNamara interrupted. “Commandant Von Reiter! As you are well aware, Lieutenant Scott was acquitted of this crime by the unanimous verdict of a military tribunal sitting in court-martial! While Lieutenant Scott was imprisoned in your cooler, the tribunal concluded that there was not evidence beyond and to the exclusion of a reasonable doubt concerning this killing, and Lieutenant Scott was declared not guilty! I fail to see why—”

  “Please, colonel, I have not completed my examination.”

  “Acquitted?” Scott asked, with a short laugh. “It might have been nice if someone had told me.”

  “The camp knows,” MacNamara said. “We made an announcement at Appell the morning after the escape.”

  Scott smiled. He placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder and gave him a congratulatory squeeze.

  MacNamara quieted. Von Reiter paused, looked from face to face, then continued to ask questions.

  “Lieutenant Hart, let me put this another way. Your investigation determined the identity of the real killer, did it not?”

  “It did,” Tommy answered as strongly as possible.

  Von Reiter smiled. “I thought it would.” The German shook his head slightly. “I thought some people might have underestimated you, Mr. Hart. But that, of course, concerns us little now. To continue, lieutenant, this murderer . . . he was not a member of the Luftwaffe, was he?”

  “No sir.”

  “Nor was he a member of any other German armed force, correct?”

  “That is correct, commandant,” Tommy replied.

  “In other words, Captain Bedford’s assassin was a member of the Allied forces imprisoned here at Stalag Luft Thirteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will be willing to sign a statement confirming this fact?”

  “As long as I am not required to identify the actual murderer.”

  Von Reiter laughed briefly. “That, of course, lieutenant, is a matter for your own authorities to discuss with you at some later, more convenient point. My superiors have declared that the purposes of the Luftwaffe will be served by merely swearing that the killer does not belong to our service, thereby relieving us from any lingering culpability in this unfortunate matter. You can do that?”

  “Yes, commandant.”

  Von Reiter seemed pleased. “I have taken the liberty of having this document prepared. You will have to have trust that the German language reflects what I have just stated and you have confirmed. Unless your own officers would like to supply a translator . . .”

  Von Reiter grinned wickedly at MacNamara, before adding, “But I suspect they would not wish to do that, for they prefer that we do not know the names of the American officers fluent in German.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Tommy whispered.

  “I thought as much,” Von Reiter said. He retreated behind his desk, opened the center drawer, and removed a piece
of paper with typing on it. There was a large embossed black eagle at the head of the page. The German gestured at the spot where Tommy’s name was already written in. He offered Tommy a fountain pen. Struggling with the pain that constantly sent rivets of hot agony through his arm and into his chest, Tommy bent forward and signed the paper. It was exhausting.

  Von Reiter took the paper, held it up, examined it, blew once on the ink to dry it, then returned the paper to his desk drawer. Then he barked out a quick command in German and a side door immediately opened. Fritz Number One entered and saluted.

  “Sergeant! Bring Herr Blucher, please. And that other item that we discussed.”

  Von Reiter turned to Tommy as the molelike Swiss entered the office. He wore the same black homburg and carried the same worn black briefcase that he’d had with him on the day Phillip Pryce had been turned over to his care. Von Reiter smiled again. “This, Mr. Hart, is Herr Blucher of the Swiss Red Cross. He will accompany you to a hospital in his country. Alas, German facilities are inadequate, I believe, for your needs at this time.” The German commandant lifted an eyebrow. “You have met Herr Blucher, I understand? And mistakenly assumed him to be a member of our esteemed state police? Gestapo? I assure you, he is not.”

  Von Reiter hesitated again, before adding, “And he carries with him a small gift from a friend of yours, Mr. Hart. Wing Commander Pryce managed to send these items through diplomatic courier. I believe he obtained them at the hospital in Geneva where he currently resides. Lieutenant Fenelli, perhaps your assistance at this point?”

  “Phillip!” Hugh Renaday burst out. “How did he learn . . .”

  Von Reiter shrugged. “We are not beasts, flying officer. At least not all of us. Lieutenant Fenelli, if you would be so kind . . .”

  Fenelli stepped forward, and Herr Blucher handed him a small parcel wrapped in string and brown paper. The medic from Cleveland swiftly tore it open and gasped out a sudden, heartfelt, “Jesus Christ! Thank God, thank God . . .”

  He turned and the others could see that inside the parcel was sulfa, disinfectant, sterile wraps, several syringes, and a half-dozen precious vials of penicillin and a similar amount of morphine.

  “Penicillin, first!” Fenelli said. Without hesitating, he was filling a syringe. “As much as possible, as fast as possible.” He rolled Tommy’s sleeve up and cleared a spot near the shoulder. He plunged the needle in, whispering, “Fight hard, Tommy Hart. Now you got a real chance.”

  Tommy leaned his head back. For the barest of moments, he started to allow himself to believe he might live.

  Fenelli continued to talk, seemingly to himself, but to all the others in the room, as well. “. . . Now some morphine for the trip. Kill that pain for a bit. That sounds pretty good, huh, Hart?”

  Von Reiter held up his hand again. “Ah, lieutenant, before you administer the morphine, please, one more moment.”

  Fenelli stopped in the midst of filling the syringe.

  Von Reiter looked over toward Fritz Number One, who had come through the door and was carrying a makeshift box. The German commandant smiled one more time. But it was the coldest of smiles, one that spoke of many hard years spent in the harsh service of war.

  “I have two gifts for you, Mr. Hart,” he said quietly. “So that you may remember these days.”

  He reached inside his tunic pocket and carefully removed a handkerchief. It was the bloodstained silk handkerchief with which Tommy had first bound his hand in the moments after his battle with Visser.

  “This is yours, I believe, Mr. Hart. Undoubtedly an important gift from a woman friend back in the States, and I suspect of some sentimental value . . .”

  The German smoothed the brilliant white handkerchief out flat on the desktop in front of him. The crimson stains had dried into deep maroon colors.

  “And so, I return what is yours, lieutenant. But I do note the odd coincidence that your lady friend back home seems to possess the precise identical initials as my former second-in-command, Hauptmann Heinrich Albert Visser, who died so bravely in service of his country.”

  Tommy could see the HAV embossed in flowing script in a corner of the handkerchief. He looked up at Von Reiter, who shook his head.

  “War, of course, is a series of the most perplexing coincidences.”

  Von Reiter sighed and picked up the silk square, folding it carefully three times, and handing it across the desktop to Tommy Hart.

  “I have one other gift for you, Mr. Hart, and then Mr. Fenelli can feel free to administer the morphia, which I know will provide you with great relief on your journey to Switzerland.”

  Von Reiter gestured sharply toward Fritz Number One, who stepped forward and placed the box he held at his waist at Tommy’s feet.

  “What the hell are those?” Colonel MacNamara burst out. “Looks like a bunch of damn hats!”

  Von Reiter let his awful smile curl around the corners of his mouth before replying. “You are indeed correct, colonel. They are hats. Some wool caps, some fur hats, some are mere cloth head coverings. There are many different shapes and sizes and styles. They have but one detail in common. Like the handkerchief that I have already returned, they are marked with blood, and thus will need to be cleaned before they can ever hope to be used again.”

  “Hats?” the Senior American Officer asked. “What is Hart to do with a bunch of hats? Especially bloody ones.”

  “They are Russian hats, colonel.”

  “Well,” MacNamara continued, “I don’t see why—”

  But Von Reiter coolly interrupted him.

  “Eighty-four hats, colonel. Eighty-four Russian hats.”

  The commandant turned to Tommy Hart.

  “Sixteen men went to the firing squad bareheaded, Lieutenant Hart.”

  Then Von Reiter shrugged.

  “This surprised me immensely,” he added. “I thought that for the cold-blooded murder of a highly decorated German officer, the Gestapo would shoot the entire work camp. Each and every Russian. But to my astonishment, they selected only one hundred men to kill in retaliation.”

  Von Reiter walked back around the desk, and seated himself. He allowed a moment of quiet to fill the room before he nodded and gestured to Fenelli, who held the morphine needle ready.

  “Go with Herr Blucher, Mr. Hart. Leave here and take all your secrets with you. His car will take you to the train. The train will carry you to Switzerland, where your friend Wing Commander Pryce, a hospital, and surgeons all await your arrival. Do not think about those one hundred men. Not for another moment. Wipe them from your memory. Instead, you should endeavor to survive. Return home to Vermont. Live to be old and rich and happy, Lieutenant Hart. And when your grandchildren come to your side one day to ask you about the war, you can say that you passed it most uneventfully, reading legal textbooks, inside a German prisoner-of-war camp named Stalag Luft Thirteen.”

  Tommy had no words left to reply with. He was only peripherally aware of the needle penetrating his flesh. But the sweet dulling sensation of morphine sweeping through him was like drinking from the greatest and freshest clear, cold mountain stream of home.

  Epilogue

  A CHURCH NOT TOO FAR FROM LAKE MICHIGAN

  Lydia Hart was in the bathroom, putting the finishing touches to her hair, when she called out, “Tommy? Do you need help with your tie?” She paused, waiting for a response, which came merely as a grunted negative, which was precisely what she’d expected and made her smile as she ran the brush through the silver cascade she still wore down around her shoulders. Then she added, “How are we doing on time?”

  “We have all the time in the world,” Tommy replied softly.

  He was seated by the large window of their hotel suite, and from where he was positioned, he could see both his wife’s reflection in the mirror and, when he pivoted and looked through the windowpane, all the way to Lake Michigan. It was a summer mid-morning, and streaky sunlight flitted off the dark blue surface of the water. He had spent the past quarter hour
studiously watching sailboats pirouette across the slight roll of the waves, cutting back and forth in seemingly aimless patterns. The grace and speed of each sleek hull, circling beneath a billowing white sail, was hypnotic. He wondered a bit why he’d always gravitated to fishing boats and noisy motors, guessing this preference had something to do with his inclination for destinations, but then decided also that he would have had too much trouble handling both the tiller and the mainsheet of a sailboat driven fast before the wind.

  Tommy looked down and stole a glance at his left hand. He was missing his index finger and half of the little finger. Purplish scar tissue had built up in the deep gouges ripped from his palm. But, he thought, the hand appeared to be far more crippled than it truly was. For more than fifty years his wife had been asking him if he needed help tying his tie, and for all that time he’d always replied that he did not. He had learned how to tie knots in both the ties he wore to his office and the fishing lines he used on his boat. And every month when the government had dutifully sent him a modest disability check, he’d just as dutifully signed it over to the general scholarship fund at Harvard. Still, his war-damaged hand had lately developed a tendency to the stiffness of arthritis, and on more than one recent occasion had frozen painfully on him. He had not told his wife about these small betrayals.

  “Do you think there will be anyone there we know?” his wife asked.

  Tommy reluctantly turned away from the vision of sailboats, and fixed his eyes on his wife’s reflection. For a single heady moment he thought she had not changed one bit since the day they were married in 1945.

  “No,” he said. “Probably just a lot of dignitaries. He was pretty famous. Maybe there will be some lawyers I met over the years. But not really anyone we know.”

  “Not even someone from the prisoner-of-war camp?”

  Tommy smiled and shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”

  Lydia put the hairbrush down, replacing it in her hand with an eyebrow pencil. She worked on her face for a moment, then said, “I wish Hugh were still alive so he could keep you company.”