Hart's War Page 12

  Tommy nodded. “I see,” he said.

  Scott turned to him angrily, thrusting his face directly in front of Tommy’s. His eyes were narrowed, each word he spoke freighted with rage. “You don’t see a thing!” he hissed. “You have no idea who I am! You don’t have any idea what I’ve been through to get here! You are ignorant and unaware, Hart, just like everybody else! And I don’t imagine that you have any real inclination to learn.”

  Tommy took a single step backward, then stopped. He could feel an anger of a different sort rising within him, and he returned Lincoln Scott’s words with a thrust of his own.

  “Maybe I don’t,” he said coldly. “But right now I’m the only thing standing between you and a firing squad. You might be smart to keep that in mind.”

  Scott turned away, suddenly facing the cement wall. He lowered his forehead to the damp surface, then raised his hands to the smooth cement, so that he seemed to be balancing there, as if his feet weren’t on solid ground, but instead gripping the narrowest of tightropes.

  “I don’t need any help,” he said quietly.

  Still reverberating inwardly with an ill-defined rage, Tommy’s first inclination was to tell the black flier that was fine with him, and walk out. He was perfectly happy returning to his books, his friends, and the routine of camp life he’d created for himself, simply letting each minute collect inexorably into an hour, and then add up into another day. Waiting for someone else to bring his imprisonment to a conclusion. A conclusion that held out the possibility of life, when so much that had happened to him had promised him death. He thought sometimes that he’d somehow managed to bluff his way to a pot in some uniquely deadly poker game, and having swept his winnings, even as meager as they were, into his arms, that he was unwilling to gamble again. Not even willing to look at a new hand of cards dealt to him. He had reached a most curious and unexpected position in life. He lived surrounded by a world where there was danger and threat in almost any action, no matter how simple or inconsequential. But by doing nothing, by remaining perfectly still and unnoticed on the small island of Stalag Luft Thirteen, he could survive. Like whistling past a graveyard. He started to open his mouth to tell Scott this, then stopped himself.

  He took a deep breath, holding the air in his lungs.

  Tommy thought in that second that it was the most curious of things: Two men could be standing next to each other, breathing the same air, but one could taste the future and freedom in each whiff, while the other could sense nothing but bitterness and hatred. And fear, as well, he considered, because fear is the cowardly brother of hatred.

  And so, instead of telling Lincoln Scott to screw himself, Tommy replied, in as quiet a voice as the black flier had just used: “You are mistaken.”

  Scott did not move, but asked, “Mistaken, how?”

  “Because everyone here in this camp needs help to some degree or another, and at the moment, you need it far more than anyone else.”

  Scott remained silent, listening.

  “You don’t have to like me,” Tommy said. “You don’t even have to respect me. You can hate me, for all it matters. But right now, you need me. And we will get along much better if you understand that.”

  Scott remained pensive for several long seconds, before finally speaking. He still kept his head to the wall, but his words were distinct. “I’m cold, Mr. Hart. I’m very cold. This place is freezing, and it’s all I can do to keep my teeth from chattering. How about that for starters: Can you help me get something warm to put on?”

  Tommy nodded. “Do you have any spare clothing, other than what they took from you this morning?”

  “No. Just what I was shot down with.”

  “No extra socks or a sweater from home?”

  Lincoln Scott laughed sharply, as if this was ridiculous. “No.”

  “Then I’ll get some from somewhere else.”

  “I would appreciate it.”

  “What size shoes?”

  “Twelve. But I’d prefer my flight boots back.”

  “I’ll work on that. And the jacket, too. Have you eaten?”

  “The Krauts gave me a hunk of stale bread and a cup of water this morning.”

  “All right. Food, too. And blankets.”

  “Can you get me out of here, Mr. Hart?”

  “I will try. No promises.”

  The black flier turned from the wall and eyed Tommy with an unwavering gaze. Tommy thought that it was probably the same narrowing of focus that Lincoln Scott used when he fixed a German fighter in the sight of his Mustang’s machine guns. “Make a promise, Hart,” Scott said. “It won’t hurt you. Show me what you can do.”

  “All I can tell you is that I’ll do my best. I’ll go talk to MacNamara after I leave here. But they’re worried. . . .”

  “Worried? About what?”

  Tommy hesitated, then shrugged. “They used the words riot and lynching, lieutenant. They were afraid that friends of Vincent Bedford might want to avenge his death before they’ve convened their court and heard evidence and rendered a verdict.”

  Scott nodded slowly. He smiled wryly. “In other words, they would prefer to have their own lynching, but in their own time, and to make it all look as official as possible.”

  “It would seem that way. My job is to prevent it from happening quite the way they want.”

  “I shouldn’t expect this will make you too popular,” Scott said.

  “Let’s not worry about that. Let’s stick to the case.”

  “What is their case?”

  “That’s my next task. To find out.”

  Scott paused, breathing hard, almost like a man who’d just sprinted a race.

  “Do what you can, Mr. Hart,” he said slowly. “I don’t want to die here. Don’t get me wrong about that. But if you ask me, whatever you do won’t make a damn bit of difference, because my guess is that minds are already made up, and a verdict already rendered. Verdict. What a stupid word, Hart. What a truly stupid word. Do you know it comes from the Latin: to speak the truth. What a crock. What a lie. What a goddamn lie.”

  Tommy did not respond to this.

  Scott suddenly looked down at his hands, turning them over, as if searching them, or inspecting the color.

  “It has never made a difference, Hart, do you understand? Never!” Scott’s voice rose sharply. “Goddamn never! Black is guilty, no matter what. It’s always been like that. Maybe it will always be that way.”

  Scott ran his hand over the brown wool of his service blouse.

  “We all thought this might make it different. This uniform. Every last goddamn one of us. Guys die, Hart; they die hard and some die horribly, but their last thoughts are of home and making a difference for everyone they’re leaving behind. What a lie.”

  “I’m going to do my best,” Tommy said again, but then stopped, realizing that whatever he said would sound pathetic.

  Scott hesitated again, then he slowly turned his back.

  “I appreciate your help,” he said. “Whatever you can manage.” The resignation in the black flier’s voice implied that not only did he have no expectations of help, but that he doubted that any, if delivered, would have any impact.

  Both men were quiet for a moment, before Scott said bitterly: “You know what’s funny, Hart? I got shot down on April first. April first, nineteen forty-four. April Fool’s Day. I got one of the Nazi bastards and my wingman got another and we had run out of ammo before the bastards jumped us. The two guys we shot down never managed to bail out. Two confirmed kills. I thought the joke was on them, but it would appear I am mistaken. Joke’s on me. Maybe they did get me, after all.”

  Tommy Hart was about to ask a question, anything to keep the black flier talking, when he heard footsteps and voices entering the cooler corridor, beyond the thick wooden door of the cell. Both men turned at the sound of the door being unlocked and swinging open.

  Four men entered the cell, crowding along the wall. Colonel MacNamara and Major Clark stood to
the front, while Hauptmann Heinrich Visser and a corporal with a stenographer’s pad hung to the rear. The two American officers returned salutes, then Clark took a single step forward.

  “Lieutenant Scott,” he said, briskly, “it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that you are officially being charged with the premeditated murder of Captain Vincent Bedford of the United States Army Air Corps on this day, the twenty-second of May, nineteen forty-four. . . .”

  Visser quietly translated for the stenographer, who scribbled furiously.

  “. . . As you have been made aware, I’m certain, by your counsel, this is a capital offense. If you are convicted, the court will either sentence you to be held in isolation until such time as U.S. military authorities can take charge of your person, or it may order your immediate execution, which our captors will perform. A preliminary session with the court has been scheduled for two days from today. You may enter a plea at that time.”

  Clark saluted and stepped back.

  “I have done nothing!” Lincoln Scott burst out.

  Tommy came to attention and spoke out sharply: “Sir, Lieutenant Scott denies totally having any connection whatsoever with the killing of Captain Bedford! He unequivocally states his innocence, sir! He also requests the return of his personal items and his immediate release into camp population.”

  “Out of the question,” Clark replied.

  Tommy Hart turned toward Colonel MacNamara. “Sir! How is Lieutenant Scott expected to prepare his defense to these erroneous charges from a cooler cell? This is completely unfair. Lieutenant Scott remains innocent until he is proven to be guilty, sir. Back home, even with the seriousness of the charges, he would still only be confined to barracks pending the trial. I’m asking nothing more.”

  Clark turned to MacNamara, who seemed to be considering the request. “Colonel, you can’t . . . Who knows what trouble we would have? I think it best for all concerned if Lieutenant Scott remains here, where he is safe.”

  “Safe until you arrange a firing squad, major,” Scott muttered.

  MacNamara glared at the two lieutenants. He held up his hand. “That’s enough,” he said. “Lieutenant Hart, you are fundamentally correct. It is important that we maintain all available military rules. However, this is a special situation.”

  “Special, my ass,” Scott said, glaring at the commanding officer. “Just typical Jim Crow justice.”

  “Watch your tongue when speaking to a superior officer!” Clark shouted. He and Scott snarled at each other.

  Tommy stepped forward. “Sir! Where can he go? What can he do? We’re all still prisoners here.”

  MacNamara paused, clearly pondering his alternatives. His face was flushed red and his jaw set, as if he was struggling with the legitimacy of the request weighed against the insubordination of the black flier. MacNamara took a deep breath and finally spoke in a low, controlled voice. “All right, Lieutenant Hart. Lieutenant Scott will be released into your custody after tomorrow morning’s count. One night in the cooler, Scott. I will need to make an announcement to the camp, and we will need to clear a room for him. Alone. I won’t have him in routine contact with any other men. During this time, he will be confined to the immediate area of his barracks unless he is in your presence and engaged in legitimate defense inquiries. I have your word on this?”

  “Absolutely.” It was not lost on Tommy that this arrangement was more or less exactly what Vincent Bedford had wanted. Before he’d been murdered.

  “Scott, I need your word, as well,” MacNamara hissed, then added, “As an officer and a gentleman, of course.”

  Lincoln Scott continued to glare at the colonel and the major.

  “Of course . . .” he said. “As an officer, and a gentleman. You have my word.” He snapped off his reply.

  “Very good, then we will—”

  “Sir,” Tommy interrupted. “Lieutenant Scott’s personal items, sir! When will they be returned to him?”

  Major Clark shook his head. “They won’t be. Find something new for him to wear, lieutenant, because the next time you see his shoes and his jacket will be at trial.”

  “Why is that, sir?” Hart asked.

  “Because both items are covered with Vincent Bedford’s blood,” Major Clark replied with a sneer.

  Neither Lincoln Scott nor Tommy Hart replied to this announcement. In the corner of the cooler cell the German stenographer’s scratching pen finally paused after Heinrich Visser translated the final few words.

  The late afternoon sky had darkened, and a light, cold rain was falling when Tommy exited the cooler block. The sky above his head promised nothing but more of the same. He hunched his shoulders and turned up his jacket collar and hurried toward the gate to the American compound. He spotted Hugh Renaday waiting for him, his back up against the exterior wall of Hut 111. Hugh was smoking furiously—Tommy saw him finish one cigarette and light a new one off the butt of the old—and staring up into the sky.

  “At home, the spring is always late, just like this,” Hugh said quietly. “Just when you think it will finally get warm and summer will come racing in, it will snow. Or rain. Or something.”

  “Vermont’s the same,” Tommy said. “No one calls it spring. We call it mud season. The time between winter and summer. A slimy, slippery, useless, messy pain in the ass interlude.”

  “More or less what we have here,” Hugh said.

  “More or less.” Both men smiled.

  “What did you learn from our infamous client?”

  “He denies having anything to do with the murder. But—”

  “Ah, Tommy, but is a terrible word,” Hugh interrupted. “Why is it that I doubt I’m going to like what I’m about to hear?”

  “Because when MacNamara and Clark waltzed in to announce that formal charges were being prepared, Clark blurted out that Vincent Bedford’s blood is on both Scott’s boots and his jacket. I presume that’s what he meant earlier when he said they had enough evidence to convict him.”

  Hugh released his breath slowly. “That’s a problem,” he said. “Blood on the boots and a bloody boot mark in the Abort. Bloody hell . . .”

  “It gets a little worse.” Tommy spoke softly.

  Hugh snorted, slightly wide-eyed. “Worse?”

  “Yes. Lincoln Scott was in the habit of leaving his bunk in the middle of the night to use the toilet. Sneaking out of the bunk room to the latrine so that he wouldn’t offend the sensibilities of whatever white officers didn’t want to share a toilet with a black man. He did this last night, conveniently lighting a candle to find his way.”

  Hugh slumped back against the building. “And the problem is . . .” he started.

  “The problem is,” Tommy continued, “someone probably did see him. So at some point during the night, he’s absent from the bunk room and there’s a witness somewhere in the camp who will testify to that. Clark will argue that was when the opportunity for murder arose.”

  “That could have been the most dangerous piss he’s ever taken.”

  “I was thinking the same.”

  “Have you explained this to Scott?”

  “No. I would not say our first meeting went particularly smoothly.”

  Hugh looked quizzically at his friend. “No?”

  “No. Lieutenant Scott has, shall we say, little confidence in his chances for justice.”

  “What did he—”

  “He believes that minds are already made up. He may be correct.”

  “Bloody right about that, I’d say,” Renaday muttered.

  Tommy shrugged. “We’ll see. So, what did you find out? Especially about Visser. He seems . . .”

  “A little different from other Luftwaffe officers?”

  “Yes.”

  “My impression as well, Tommy. Especially after watching him in that Abort. The man has been to more than one crime scene, I’ll wager. He went through the place like some sort of damnable archaeologist. There wasn’t a square inch of that place that he didn’t eyeba
ll. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even acknowledge my presence, except for one time, and that took me by surprise.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He pointed down at the bootprint, stared at it for a good sixty seconds, like it was some speech he was trying to memorize, then he lifts up his head, looks over at me standing there, and he says, ‘Flying officer, I might suggest you take a piece of paper and trace this as best you can.’ I bloody well took his suggestion. In fact, I made a couple of sketches. Made some maps of the location of the body and the layout of the Abort. I did a quick drawing of Bedford’s body, showing the wounds. Tried to put in as much detail as possible. Actually, ran out of paper, and Visser ordered one of the goons to go get me a brand-new pad from the commandant’s office. It might come in handy in the days to come.”

  “Curious,” Tommy said. “It was like he was trying to help.”

  “Seemed that way. Which I wouldn’t trust for one damn second.”

  Tommy thrust his back up against the hut. The small roof overhang kept the misting rain off their faces.

  “Did you see what I saw in the Abort?” Tommy asked.

  “Think so.”

  “Vic wasn’t killed in the Abort. I don’t know where he was killed, but it wasn’t there. That’s where he was put by somebody or somebodies. But not killed.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Hugh said briskly, smiling. “Sharp eyes, Tommy. What I saw was some blood on Trader Vic’s blouse but not on those naked thighs. And none on the Abort seat or on the floor around him. So where’s all the blood? Man gets his throat cut, ought to be blood jolly well everywhere. I took a closer look at the wound in the neck, too. Right after Visser did. Visser reached down with that single hand and like he was some sort of scientist, wipes away some of the blood, and measured with his fingers the slice in Trader Vic’s throat. The jugular is cut, all right. But the slice sort of stops after no more than a couple of inches. Two inches, maximum. Maybe even a little less. Visser doesn’t say a word, but he turns to me holding his thumb and index finger apart like so.” Renaday held up his hand, demonstrating. “And then there’s the little matter of Vic’s nearly severed finger and cut marks on the hands. . . .”