Tommy did not see this. He thrust himself at the German, grabbing for the man's throat.
The two men tangled together, falling backward, the force of Tommy assault carrying them just within the line of trees at the forest's edge, pushing them out of sight of the towers and the guards walking the far perimeter. They were locked together, anonymously, in the pitch black.
At first. Tommy did not know who he was fighting. He knew only that the man was the enemy, and that he had with him a light, a gun, and perhaps the most dangerous weapon of all, his voice. Each of these three things could kill him with ease, and Tommy knew that he had to fight against each. He tried to find the light, but it had disappeared, and so he punched out, flailing fists desperately, trying to neutralize the other two dangers.
Visser rolled sideways against the force of the assault, fighting back.
He was a cold, highly trained, and experienced soldier, and he knew instantly what the stakes were. He absorbed the blows from Tommy's fists raining down on him, and concentrated on finding the Mauser. He kicked back with both legs, landing one shot to Tommy's midsection, hearing a sharp exhale of breath.
Although it was not in Visser's nature to call for help, he tried to do this.
'Help!' he managed to squeeze out weakly, his own lungs still raging with the loss of air from Tommy's initial attack. The word seemed to linger around the two struggling men, then dissipate in the darkness surrounding them. Visser seized at the night air, filling his chest to bellow a cry for assistance, but, in that second. Tommy's hand found his mouth.
Tommy had landed nearly behind the German. He was able to wrap one leg around the German's midsection, pulling him back on top of him, deeper into the shadows of the forest. At the same time. Tommy thrust his left hand deep into the German's mouth, stuffing Visser's throat with his own fingers, trying to choke the German. He was still only obliquely aware that there was a weapon, and it took him another half-second to realize that the man he fought had but one arm.
'Visser!' he whispered sharply.
The German didn't reply, although Tommy could sense that he had recognized Tommy's voice. Instead, he kicked and struggled and grasped at his pistol. He also brought all his teeth crunching down into the soft flesh of Tommy's left hand, biting deeply into the skin.
The pain shot through Tommy as teeth tore through muscle and tendon, searching for bone. He groaned as a sheet of red agony nearly blinded him.
But he fought on, pushing his now ravaged hand deeper into the German's throat. With his free hand, he found Visser's wrist. He could sense from the weight that the German had almost managed to free the pistol, and was directing all his strength to withdrawing it and firing a shot.
Tommy understood, even though his head was filled with nothing but hurt and he could feel blood pulsing from his hand, that merely firing a shot into the air could kill him as effectively as putting the barrel to his chest and firing a shot into his heart. So he ignored the growing fury of the pain in his left hand, and concentrated on the German's only arm, and the effort it was making to reach the pistol butt and trigger. In the oddest of ways, the entire war, years long, millions of deaths, a struggle between cultures and nations, came down, for Tommy, to the single fight to control that pistol. He ignored the savagery Visser's teeth were wreaking on his left hand and fought only for the smallest victory, over that pistol.
He could sense Visser's fingers straining to reach the trigger guard, and he furiously pulled back. The Mauser seemed balanced, partway free of the stiff and shiny black leather holster. Its cumbersome shape and heavy weight were the smallest of advantages in Tommy's favor, but
Visser's strength was considerable. The German was a powerfully built man, and much of his strength was concentrated in that sole remaining arm, and Tommy could sense that the balance of this fight within the fight was shifting in Visser's favor.
And so he took a chance. Instead of pulling back, he suddenly thrust forward, twisting with his hand. Visser's fingers jammed against the trigger guard, and one of them abruptly snapped. The German moaned in pain, pushing the guttural sound past Tommy's bloody left hand that still threatened to choke him.
The Mauser seemed to teeter on the edge of possession, and then tumbled away, falling into the moss and dirt of the forest, its black metal body immediately swallowed up by the surrounding darkness.
Visser knew the gun was lost, and so he redoubled his fight, crunching down again with his teeth, destroying much of Tommy's left hand, and flailing away with his right. The German tried to struggle up, but Tommy's legs wrapped around him, so that they fought almost as close as lovers, but with murder their only kiss.
Tommy ignored the punches that crashed painfully against him, ignored the agony that shot from his hand, and pulled Visser back. He had never been trained in how to kill a man with his hands, had never even considered it. The only fights he'd had growing up were shoving and pushing matches that relied mostly on angry words and insults and usually ended with one or both boys in tears. No fight he had ever experienced, not even the battle in the tunnel earlier that night, when he'd fought for the truth, seemed as concentrated as this one.
None were even as deadly as the battles that Lincoln Scott fought, gloved and refereed, in a boxing ring.
This, he knew, was something far different. It was a fight that had only one answer. The German punched and kicked and crushed down with his teeth, tearing away at the flesh of Tommy's hand, but Tommy suddenly felt no more pain at all.
It was as if a total coldness of instinct and desire overwhelmed him in those few seconds and he gritted his teeth and started to pull back as hard as he could on the German's neck, working his right knee into the small of Visser's back for leverage.
Visser instantly felt the threat, felt the strain filling his neck, and struggled to break free. He clawed with every ounce of hatred he could muster to overcome the fierce grip that Tommy held on him. If he'd had two arms, the fight would have ended swiftly in the German's favor, but the Spitfire bullet that took Visser's arm had crippled him in other ways, too. For an instant, they teetered on the edge of indecision, one man's strength against the other, each man's body twisted as taut and stiff as dried leather.
Visser mounted one great surge, biting, kicking, pounding with his free hand. The blows crashed down on Tommy, who closed his eyes and pulled harder, realizing that to slip even the smallest measure would cost him the fight and his life.
And then Tommy heard a sickening crack.
The sound of Visser's back snapping was perhaps the ugliest, most urgent sound he'd heard in his entire life. The German gasped once in the astonishment of death before going limp in Tommy's arms, and it was another few seconds before Tommy let slide the unconscious man's body.
He pulled his left hand free from Visser's mouth. The pain redoubled, almost unbearably, and for a second he felt his own head swimming, on the edge of blackness himself. He leaned back, clutching his torn and bloody hand to his chest.
The night around them seemed suddenly pristine, utterly quiet. He put his head back and took in a deep breath of air, trying to regain his own senses, struggling to impose order and reason on the world around him.
He became aware slowly of the other sounds nearby. The first was that Visser was still breathing. Tommy realized then that he had to finish the job. And for perhaps the first time in his life, he prayed that the German would die before he was forced to steal the unconscious and dying man's last breath.
'Please die,' he whispered.
And this the German did, rattling once softly.
Relief flooded Tommy, and he almost burst out in a laugh.
He looked up into the stars and sky, and saw that there was the smallest suggestion of light beginning to streak across the eastern horizon. It is an astonishing thing, he thought, to be alive when you have no right to be.
His hand was throbbing with pain. He could sense that Visser's teeth had nearly severed one, maybe more, of his fingers, which flopped uselessly against his chest. The flesh of his fist was torn and ripped. Blood pulsed over his shirt and surges of pain raced up his forearm and clouded his head.
He knew he had to bind the wound, and he bent over to Visser's inert body. He quickly found
