for them was psychological. For Lincoln Scott it was all the same, and one step more. Perhaps a fatal step.
Tommy twitched and shivered beneath his blanket. For a moment or two, he wondered if he could ever continue with the law if, on the first occasion he stepped to the bar, he lost an innocent man to a firing squad. He breathed in slowly. He understood in the darkness of the bunk room that all the odds stacked against them, the cheating and lies that had been arrayed against the black flier, every aspect of the case that was so infuriating, that if he allowed all those evils to win and take Scott's life, that he would never be able to stand up in any other courtroom and defend a man or an idea again.
He hated this thought, and tossed about in the bunk, trying to persuade himself that he was simply being naive and juvenile, and that a more experienced attorney, like Phillip Pryce, would be able to accept defeats with the same equanimity as victories. But he also understood, deep within the same difficult crevasses of his heart, that he wasn't like his friend and mentor, and that a loss in this trial would be his first and only loss.
He thought it a terrible thing to be trapped, imprisoned behind the rows of barbed wire, and still be standing at a crossroads.
He abruptly found his imagination crowded by the ghosts of his old bomber crew. The men of the Lovely Lydia were in the room with him, silent, almost reproachful. He understood that he was on that flight with really a single task that they all counted on him for: to find them the safe route home. He had not done it for them.
In a funny way, he thought the odds of success about the same for the Lovely Lydia, when it had turned and started its bombing run directly into every gun in the convoy, and Lincoln Scott, imprisoned by his country's enemies, only to find that arrayed against him were the men who should have been his friends.
Tommy put his head back, his eyes open and staring up at the ceiling, almost as if he could look straight through the wooden planks and tin roof, to the sky and the stars.
Who knows the truth about the murder of Trader Vic? he asked himself.
Someone does, but who? He took another deep breath and continued to argue in his mind all the issues, over and over again, back and forth.
He thought of what Lincoln Scott had said earlier and repeatedly: No one in the camp was really willing to help.
Tommy took a sharp breath, as an idea grabbed hold of him. It was something so obvious, he wondered why he hadn't thought of it earlier.
And for perhaps the first time that night, he managed a small grin.
The men of Hut 101 awakened to the harsh noise of whistles and German shouts of 'Raus! Raus!' punctuated by pounding against the wooden doors. They lurched from their beds as they had on so many mornings, pulling on their clothing and double-timing through the central corridor of the hut, heading to the morning Appell. But as they exited the doors to the barracks, they were greeted with the unusual sight of a squad of gray-clad German soldiers standing in formation in front of the hut, perhaps twenty men, armed with rifles. A thick-chested Feldwebel was at the foot of the stairs, a scowl across his face, directing traffic like a surly cop.
'You men, in Hut 101, assemble here! Raus! Be quick! No one to go to Appell! The Feldwebel motioned to a pair of Hundfuhrers who snatched back the chains of their snarling dogs, making the animals leap in excitement, growling and barking.
'What the hell's going on?' Scott asked beneath his breath, as he stood beside Tommy in the midst of the gathered men from Hut 101.
'I know,' Hugh answered for him.
'It's a bloody hut search. What the hell do the Krauts think they're going to find? Another damn waste of all our time!' Hugh blurted out this last sentiment loudly, directing it at the German sergeant, who was struggling to get the kriegies into well-dressed lines.
'Hey, Adolf! Better make sure you check the privy! Someone might be swimming to freedom!' The other men from Hut 101 burst into laughter and a couple of fliers applauded the Canadian's sense of humor.
'Quiet!' the Feldwebel shouted.
'No talking! At attention!'
Tommy pivoted about as best he could, and as he looked, he saw Hauptmann Visser, accompanied by an ashen-faced Fritz Number One, emerge from the rear of the formation of German soldiers.
The Feldwebel spoke in German, and one of the kriegies softly translated, the words being passed down the rows of men.
'Prisoners of Hut 101 all present and accounted for, Hauptmann 'Good,'
Visser said. He gestured to Fritz Number One.
'Begin the search.'
Fritz barked out an order, and half the squad of goons peeled off and tramped into the hut. After a moment, both Fritz and Visser followed them.
'What're they really searching for?' Scott whispered.
'Tunnels. Dirt. Radios. Contraband. Anything out of the ordinary.'
From inside the hut, there was the sound of tramping feet and deep thuds and cracks, as men went from room to room.
'They ever find anything?'
'Not usually,' Hugh replied. He smiled.
'Krauts don't really know how to perform a proper search,' he said.
'Not like a policeman. Usually they just tear up stuff, make a damn mess of things, and come away angry. Happens all the time.'
'Why did they pick this hut? This morning?'
'Real good questions,' Hugh replied.
Real good questions. Tommy repeated to himself.
After a few minutes, as the kriegies remained in their almost orderly rows, they saw German soldiers begin to exit the hut. The goons came out singly or in pairs, and almost all were empty-handed, grinning sheepishly, shrugging, and shaking their heads. Tommy noticed that most of the squad of goons were old, many of them nearly as old as Phillip Pryce had been. The others, of course, were impossibly young, barely into their teens, with uniforms they didn't quite fit into hanging poorly from their young limbs. After a few more seconds, there was a shout of excitement from deep within the hut. A moment passed, and then one man emerged, grinning, holding a makeshift radio that had been concealed in an empty coffee tin. The German held this up high, a look of delight on his wrinkled, old man's face. Right behind him was another goon, barely a third the older man's age. He, too, was smiling and excited. From several rows behind him. Tommy heard an airman mutter, 'Ahh, goddamn it! They got my radio! Son of a gun! I traded three cartons of smokes for that!'
Perhaps the last to emerge from the hut were Fritz Number One and Heinrich Visser. The one-armed German officer scowled at Tommy. With his only hand, he gestured at Tommy, Hugh, and Lincoln Scott, pointing a sharp index finger at each man. Visser did not see Fritz Number One, standing just to his side and behind him, just shake his head slightly back and forth.
'You three!' he said loudly.
'Step forward!'
Wordlessly, the three men stepped away from the formation.
'Search these three! Immediately!' Visser ordered.
Tommy raised his hands above his head, and one of the German goons started to pat him down. The same was being done to Lincoln Scott and Hugh Renaday, who laughed when he was touched.
'Hey!' Hugh said, eye to eye with Visser, 'Hauptmann, tell your goons not to be quite so friendly and a little less familiar.
They tickle!'
Visser locked eyes with the Canadian humorlessly. He said nothing.
Then, after a second, he turned to the soldier who had patted Tommy down.
'Nein, Herr Hauptmann,' the goon said, rising and saluting.
