'He made it home. Safe and sound.'
'Who flies in the 332nd?'
'Men from all over the States.'
'And what distinguishes you?'
'We are volunteers. No draftees.'
'What else?'
'We are all Negroes. Trained at Tuskegee, Alabama.'
'Has any bomber being protected by the 332nd Fighter Group been lost to enemy fighter action?'
'Not yet.'
'Why is that?'
Scott hesitated. He had kept his eyes directly on Tommy throughout the exchange, and they did not waver now, save for one wide look, where
Scott took in the expanse of the audience, before returning to fix Tommy with his singular, rigid stare.
'We had all agreed, when we first got our wings. Made a rule. A credo, you might say. No white boy we were assigned to protect was going to die.'
Tommy paused, letting this statement reverberate above the silent crowd in the courtroom.
'Now, when you arrived here,' Tommy continued, 'did you make friends with any other kriegie?'
'No.'
'None?'
'That's right.'
'Why is that?'
'I had never had a white friend. Lieutenant Hart. I did not think I needed to start here.'
'And now? Do you have any friends now, Lieutenant Scott?'
He hesitated again, shrugged slightly, and said, 'Well, Mr. Hart, I suppose that I would now consider yourself and Flying Officer
Renaday to be somewhat closer to that category.'
'And that would be it?'
'Yes.'
'Now, Captain Vincent Bedford…'
'I hated him. He hated me. The color of my skin seemed to be the basis for that hatred, Mr. Hart, but I suspect it went further.
When he looked at me, he did not see a single man thrust into the same circumstances as he was. He saw an enemy that went back centuries. A far greater enemy than any German we might be at war with. And I, I must admit, unfortunately, saw much the same in him. He was the man who enslaved, tortured, and worked my ancestors to death. It was like being confronted by a nightmare that has not only afflicted yourself, but your father and your grandfather and every generation that went before you.'
'Did you kill Vincent Bedford?'
'No. I did not! I would have gladly fought Vincent Bedford, and if, in that fight, he should have died, then I would not have been saddened. But would I have stalked him through the night, as these men suggest, and crept up and attacked him from behind like some sort of weak and reprehensible coward? No sir! I would not now, not ever, do such a thing!'
'You would not?'
Scott was sitting forward, his voice ringing through the courtroom.
'No. But did I rejoice when I heard that someone had? Yes. Yes, I did! Even when they falsely accused me, I still, within myself, was thankful for what had happened, because I believed Vincent Bedford to be evil!'
'Evil?'
'Yes. A man who lives a lie, as he did, is evil.'
Tommy stopped then. What he heard in Scott's words went in a direction different from what he thought the black flier meant. But he felt a rush straight through the core of his body, for he had just seen something about Vincent Bedford that he doubted anyone else saw, with the possible exception of the man who murdered him. For a second.
Tommy paused, almost swaying as he was buffeted by thoughts. Then he scrambled, turning back to face Scott, who eagerly awaited the next question.
'You heard Hauptmann Visser suggest that you assisted someone else in the commission of this crime…'
Scott smiled.
'I think everyone here knows how crazy that suggestion was, Mr. Hart.
What were the Hauptmann'1?' own words? Ridiculous and ludicrous. No one in this camp trusts me. There's no one in this camp I trust. Not with some wild conspiracy to murder another officer.'
Tommy stole a look toward Visser, whose face had reddened, and who shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Then he turned back to his client.
'Who killed Vincent Bedford?'
'I do not know. I know only who they want to blame.'
'And that would be?'
'That would be me.'
Scott hesitated one more time, then loudly added, with all the intensity of the preacher calling up to the heavens, 'This war is filled with innocent people dying every minute, every second, Mr. Hart.
If this is my time, innocent though I am, then so be it! But I am innocent of these charges and will remain that way until the day I die!'
Tommy let these words fill the courtroom, echoing above the crowd of kriegies. Then he turned to Walker Townsend.
'Your witness,' he said quietly.
The captain from Virginia rose, and moved slowly to the center of the courtroom. He had one hand upon his chin, stroking the stubble gathered there, in the almost-universal aspect of a man considering his words very carefully. Across from him. Tommy could see that Scott was poised in his seat, a portrait of both electricity and energy, anticipating the first question from the prosecutor. There was no nervousness in Scott's eyes, only an alertness and a fighter's concentration.
Tommy recognized in that second why Scott must have been such a force behind the stick of his Mustang; the black airman had the unique capacity to focus solely on the fight in front of him. He was a true warrior. Tommy thought, and in his own way far more professional than even the career officers hanging on his every word. The only man in the courtroom who Tommy believed could approach the intensity in which Scott cloaked himself was Heinrich Visser. The difference was that Scott's singleness of purpose came from a righteousness, whereas Visser's was the dedication of the devoted fanatic. In a fair fight, Tommy thought, Scott would be more than a match for Visser and far more capable than Walker Townsend. The problem was, the fight wasn't fair.
'Let us take this slowly and carefully, lieutenant,' Townsend started, his words almost caressing.
'Let's talk first about the means…'
'As you wish, captain,' Scott replied.
'You do not deny, do you, lieutenant, that the weapon produced by the prosecution was manufactured by yourself?'
'I do not. I did indeed build that knife.'
'And you do not deny making the threatening statements, do you?'
'No sir. I do not. I made those statements in an effort to create some space between myself
