The goons did not reply, but one man thrust his gun barrel into the small of his back with a little more vigor. Hugh limped forward, the pain renewed in his knee, deep core-striking bolts of agony. He bit down hard on his lip and tried to hide the limp as best he could, swinging the bad leg forward.
'Really,' he said briskly, 'can't see precisely what all the fuss is about…'
'Raus,' the goon answered glumly, now pushing the limping man forward with his rifle butt.
Hugh gritted his teeth and, dragging his leg, followed close. Behind him, the searchlight shut off with a thud, and it took several seconds for the Canadian's eyes to adjust again to the darkness. Each of those seconds was punctuated with another shove from the guard. For a moment, he wondered whether the Krauts meant to shoot him in privacy, somewhere where his body wouldn't be on display for all the other kriegies.
He thought this very possible, given the sensitivity to the trial and the high-running emotions in the camp. But the pain that was racing through his leg prevented him from much further speculation. Whatever was going to happen would happen, he told himself, although it was with some relief that he realized the two guards were heading toward the primary administration building. He could see a single light flick on inside the low, flat house, almost as if in greeting.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and the goon shoved Hugh again, a little harder, and Hugh stumbled forward, almost falling on the front steps.
'Curb your enthusiasm, you bastard,' he muttered as he regained his balance. The German gestured, and Hugh mounted the stairs as rapidly as his leg would permit.
The front door swung open for him, and in the weak light emanating from the interior, Hugh made out the unmistakable form of Fritz Number One, holding the door. The ferret seemed surprised when he recognized the Canadian.
'Mr. Renaday,' Fritz whispered.
'Whatever are you doing?
You are most fortunate you were not shot!' The ferret kept his voice low, concealed.
'Thank you, Fritz,' Hugh answered quietly, but with a half-smile, as he stepped inside the administration building.
'I hope to bloody well stay that way. Unshot.'
'This could prove to be difficult,' Fritz Number One said in reply. And in the same second, Hugh saw a disheveled and clearly dangerously angry
Hauptmann Heinrich Visser sitting at the side of a single desk, reaching for one of his ever- present brown cigarettes.
Tommy blocked the first assault with his forearm, slamming Murphy across the face. The lieutenant from Springfield grunted, and pushed
Tommy back savagely against the dirt wall of the anteroom. Tommy could feel sandy grit tumbling down his shirt collar as Murphy's fingers clawed at him. He was able to wedge his left arm up under his attacker's neck, forcing the man's head back, and then he rocked him hard against the opposite wall.
Murphy replied, getting his right hand free and landing a punch to Tommy's cheek, cutting it, so that blood immediately started to trickle down, mingling with dirt and sweat.
The two men twisted together in the narrow confines of the tunnel, kicking, pushing, trying to gain some sort of advantage, fighting in a ring that provided none to either man.
Tommy was only vaguely aware of the third man, higher on the ladder, Number One on the escape list, who still held a pickax in his hands.
Murphy threw Tommy back, snarling, and Tommy managed to throw a short uppercut into his jaw, hard enough so that Murphy shot backward momentarily. It was a fight without room, as if a dog and cat had been dropped into a single burlap bag together, and tore at each other in that impossible place, neither able to use whatever advantages or cunning Nature had designed for them.
Tommy and Murphy ricocheted back and forth, slamming the wall, muscle against muscle, scratching, clawing, throwing wild fists, kicking, punching, trying to find some means of gaining the upper hand. Shadows and darkness slithered like snakes around them.
An elbow caught him in the forehead, and he was almost stunned. In dizzy fury and complete rage. Tommy kicked out, striking Murphy in the shin with a nasty crack. Then, in almost the same motion, he lifted his knee hard, and drove it into Murphy's groin and stomach. The lieutenant from Springfield moaned deeply, and fell back, clutching his midsection.
At the very same second, out of the corner of his eye, Tommy caught the sensation of something moving his way, and he ducked down, just as the point of the pickax whizzed past his ear. But the force of the miss drove the blade deep into the dirt, and Tommy was able to swing around, smashing upward with his right hand. He felt his fist slam into the other man's face. There was a creaking sound and a snapping noise as a rung on the ladder broke. Tommy realized that by trying the one deadly swing with the ax from above, the man had risked everything, and in the same motion. Tommy grabbed at the short handle, finding it and wrenching it loose, and pulling the attacker off balance, so that he tumbled down wildly, smashing his face into the wall of dirt.
Tommy threw himself back against the opposite wall, brandishing the ax in front of him, breathing harshly. He lifted the ax above his shoulder, ready to crash it down into the back of the third man's neck.
Murphy started to reach for him, then stopped, crying out sharply
'Don't!' The eerie candlelight threw alternating shadows and streaks of light across his terrified face.
Tommy hesitated, wrenching control past rage. He lifted the ax a second time, as the third man started to roll over, lifting his own forearm to try to deflect the thrust heading his way.
'Don't move!' Tommy hissed.
'Nobody goddamn move!'
He held the ax in a ready position.
Murphy seemed taut, about to spring, then stopped. He slumped back.
'Killer!' Tommy started to shout, but before he was able to speak another word, the third man said quietly, in a voice held low, that defied the murderous fight they'd just engaged in, 'Hart, don't say another word!'
Tommy half-turned toward the voice. It took him a half second to recognize the slightly tinged, soft southern tones, and to remember where he'd heard them before.
The leader of the Stalag Luft Thirteen Prisoner Jazz Band stared across at Tommy. He smiled wickedly, as if amused.
'You are a right tenacious fellow. Hart,' the band leader said. He shook his head back and forth.
'Like some damn half-crazed Yankee bulldog, I must admit. But you're wrong about one thing. Murphy didn't kill our mutual friend, Vic.
I did.'
'You!' Tommy whispered sharply.
The man grinned.
'That's right. I did. And pretty much the way you and that goddamn Kraut Visser had it all figured, too.
Imagine that. You kill a man in old-fashioned New Orleans style' the band leader mimicked sticking a knife in the throat as he spoke 'and some Kraut Gestapo-type goon figures it out. Damn. And you know what else. Hart? I'd do it again tomorrow, if I had to. So, there you have it. Are you gonna fight us some more, now?'
Tommy brandished the ax. He did not know how to reply.
The band leader continued to smile.
'We got a little bit of a problem here. Tommy,' he said. He kept his voice low.
'I need that ax. I'm one swipe, maybe two, from breaking through. And we're on a little bit of a tight deadline here. We gotta get going if we're like to have any chance. There are three trains heading to
