The man hesitated, which of course told Tommy the answer.
Then Captain Carson shrugged.
'Yeah,' he said.
'It was them. And they're the ones that helped Fenelli take his stuff.
And they told me I was gonna have to help Fenelli in here, after the trial's over and things get back to normal. That's what they said.
Back to normal.'
'So you're going to be helping Fenelli? You got any experience?
I mean, with medical problems.'
'My old man was a country doctor. He ran a little clinic where I used to work, summers. And I was premed at the University of Wisconsin, so I guess I'm as qualified as anybody else. You know, I wonder why there aren't any real doctors here. I mean, you can find just about any other type of profession…'
'Maybe the doctors are smart enough not to go up in a B-17…'
'Or a Thunderbolt. Like I wasn't.' Carson smiled.
'You know. Hart, I don't want to come across like such a hard case.
If I knew, I'd tell you. Hell, I don't even think they told Fenelli where they were moving him. And he knew you'd be coming around tonight, and so he told me to tell you he was goddamn sorry about today…' Carson looked around for a moment, just double-checking to make sure the two men were alone.
'And he left a note. You got to understand. Hart, those two guys were keeping a pretty close eye on Fenelli. Sitting on him pretty good. I didn't get the impression he was all that happy to be hustled off to some new hut. And he sure wasn't all that happy with the testimony today in court, but he wasn't talking about it one way or the other, especially with me. But he managed to scribble down something and slip it aside…' Carson was reaching into his pocket, as he spoke.
He removed a torn scrap of paper, folded twice. He handed it to
Tommy.
'I didn't read it,' Carson said.
Tommy nodded, unfolded the scrap, and read: Sorry, Hart. Trader Vic was right about one thing: Everything in this damn place is a deal. Good deal for some, maybe a bad deal for others.
Hope you make it home in one piece. After all this is finished, you ever get to Cleveland, look me up so I can apologize properly.
He did not sign the note. It was written in a hasty, scribbled script, in thick dark pencil. Tommy read it through three times, memorizing it word for word.
'Fenelli said to tell you to burn that, after you got it,' Carson said.
Tommy nodded.
'What has Fenelli told you? About this place. The clinic, I mean.'
The captain shrugged his shoulders in exaggerated fashion.
'Since I got here, all he does is complain. He's damn fed up with never being able to really help no one, because the Krauts steal the medical supplies. He said the day he gets to retire from this job and get back to his reading and real studying would be the best day of his life. That's what he said you've been up to, right. Hart? Reading those law books. He told me to be smart and do the same. Get some medical texts and start studying. We got plenty of free time, right?'
'That's the only thing we do seem to have enough of,' Tommy said.
Night's cold and dark had seized the camp as Tommy hurried beneath the encroaching gray- black skies. The last murky light streaked across the western horizon. There were only a few other stragglers making their way to their bunk rooms, and, like Tommy, they had their hats pulled down on their heads, their collars turned up against the few breaths of chilly wind that swirled in. the alleyways between the huts.
Everyone walked fast, eager to get inside before the grip of night tightened completely. His route from the medical services hut took him out to the main assembly area, now vacant, swept dry by the falling temperatures. To his left, he saw that the last of the moon, a single silver sliver, was just visible over the line of trees beyond the wire.
He wished he could take a moment, wait for the stars to begin to blink and shine, injecting familiarity and the odd sense of companionship they gave him, into his troubled imagination.
But instead, as the few other men still abroad in the camp hurried past him, he kept his pace quick and his head down.
As he approached the doorway to Hut 101, he tossed a single glance back over his shoulder, toward the main gate. What he saw made him hesitate.
There was a single electric light, beneath a tin shade, by the gate. In the weak inverted cone of light it shed. Tommy spotted the unmistakable form of Fritz Number One, lighting up a cigarette. He guessed the ferret was about to go off-duty.
Tommy stopped sharply.
Seeing the ferret, even that close to the end of the day, wasn't all that unusual. The ferrets were always alert to the final comings and goings of the camp, afraid that some clandestine meetings were taking place just beyond their sight under cover of darkness. In this, of course, they were absolutely correct. Unable to detect, of course, but correct nonetheless.
Tommy peered around for a moment, and saw that he was virtually alone, save for a distant figure or two, hurrying toward huts on the opposite side of the compound. And in that second, he made a sudden decision he knew was undoubtedly rash. He abruptly turned away from the door to Hut 101, and quickly trotted across the compound assembly area, his boots making dull thudding noises against the packed dirt. When he was twenty yards away from the main gate, Fritz Number One spotted the movement coming toward him, and pivoted to face Tommy. In the growing dark, Tommy was anonymous, just a dark form moving rapidly, and he saw some mingled alarm and inquisitiveness on the ferret's face, almost as if he were frightened by the kriegie-apparition coming through the first gloom of night in his direction.
'Fritz!' Tommy said briskly, not hiding his voice.
'Come here.'
The German stepped out of the light, threw a fast glance around himself, determining that no one else was close by, and then paced forward quickly.
'Mr. Hart! What is it? You should be in your hut.'
Tommy reached inside his flight jacket.
'Got a present for you, Fritz,' he said sharply.
The ferret stepped closer, still wary.
'A present? I do not understand…'
Tommy reached inside his jacket, and extracted the ceremonial dagger from his socks.
'I need these,' he said, holding up the socks.
'But you need this.'
With that, he tossed the knife into the dirt at the German's feet.
Fritz Number One stared down at the knife for a second, a look of astonishment on his face. Then he reached down and grabbed for it.
'You can thank me some other time,' Tommy said, turning as Fritz Number One rose up, grinning widely.
'And you can be assured I'll ask for something, someday. Something big.'
He did not wait for the German to reply; instead he jogged deliberately back across the yard, not turning even when he reached the entrance to Hut 101, and not hesitating until he'd slammed the door shut behind him, hoping that he had just done the right thing, but not at all sure that he had.
None of the trio of men in the bunk room in Hut 101 slept well that night, all of them suffering from nightmares that pitched them sweatily from their reveries, waking them to the deep midnights of imprisonment more than once. No steady breathing, no light snoring, no real rest throughout the long Bavarian night. None of the three spoke. Instead, each man awakened sharply, and lay alone 'with his thoughts and terrors, fears and angers, unable to calm himself with the usual soft, safe, and familiar visions of home. Tommy believed, as he lay awake, that it was probably worst for Scott. Hugh, like Tommy, only faced failure and frustration. Defeat
