tunnel had fought to start their own retreat, which was far more difficult in the cramped and dark quarters. The men had moved desperately, almost frantically, some crawling backward, some struggling to get turned around. Even with the urgency passed back, it still took some time for each man to retrace his steps, filled with disappointment, some fear, plenty of anxiety, and a furiousness at the harshness of life that had stolen this chance from them.
Curses resounded in the tight spaces, obscenities rebounding off the walls.
When the men first started to emerge from the tunnel, Lincoln Scott had been poised near the edge of the entrance, adjacent to the privy. Major
Clark was giving sharp orders a few feet away, trying to keep discipline among the frenzied men.
Scott had turned and absorbed the disintegration of the scene around him. He reached down and helped to lift Number Forty-seven from the entrance.
'Where's Hart?' Scott demanded.
'Did you see Tommy?' The flier shook his head.
'He must still be up at the front,' the man replied.
Scott helped push the kriegie back toward the corridor, where the man began to tear at his escape clothes. Scott looked down into the pit of the tunnel. The candlelight seemed to throw scars across the faces of the disappointed men as they struggled to crawl from the tunnel entrance. He reached down and grasped Number Forty-six's hand, and with an immense jerk, lifted the next in line to the surface, asking the same question: 'Did you see Hart? Did you hear him? Is he okay?'
But Number Forty-six shook his head.
'It's a damn mess in there, Scott. You can't see a damn thing. I don't know where Hart is.'
Scott nodded. He guided the flier out of the privy toward the corridor, then reached down and seized the black cable leading into the hole.
'What are you doing, Scott?' Major Clark demanded.
'Helping,' Scott replied. He twisted about, almost like a mountaineer preparing to rappel down a cliff, and without saying another word to the major, lowered himself down to the anteroom. He could sense a fierce tautness in the cheap air of the tunnel, almost like entering a medical ward where disease lingers in the corners and no one has ever opened a window to bring in fresh air. In the rush to retreat, the bellows had been abandoned, kicked to the side of the space by one of the first kriegies to emerge from the tunnel. Scott saw that Number Forty-five was struggling with a suitcase, and he reached into the gray semidarkness and tore it from the grateful man's hands.
'Jesus,' the kriegie whispered.
'That damn thing almost brought the roof down on my head.
Thanks.' The man leaned up against the wall of the anteroom.
'There's no air,' he whispered.
'No damn air up there at all. I hope nobody passes out.'
Scott helped to steady the gasping man against the side of the pit, and put the access cable in his hands. The kriegie nodded thanks and started to pull himself up, hand over hand.
As soon as he'd managed to lift himself over Scott's head, the black flier turned and grabbed the bellows.
He set it upright, and then plunked himself down, straddling it as had the captain from New York earlier that long night. With a strength born of urgency, he started to pump away furiously, sending blasts of air down the tunnel.
Nearly a full minute passed before the next kriegie slid through the tunnel entrance. This flier seemed exhausted by the tension of the failed escape. He coughed and tore at the air in the anteroom gratefully with wheezing breath and pointed at the bellows.
'Good,' he whispered dryly.
'You can't breathe up there. Not at all.'
'Where's Hart?' Scott demanded, between grunts. His face glistened with the sweat of exertion.
The man shook his head.
'I don't know. Coming, maybe? I don't know. You can't see. Can barely breathe. There's goddamn sand and dirt everywhere and all you can hear are the other guys yelling to back up, get out, get out, get out. That and you can hear the damn boards in the roof creaking and snapping. I hope the whole thing doesn't come caving in. Are the Krauts here yet?'
Scott gritted his teeth. He shook his head.
'Not yet. You've got a chance to get out, quick.'
Number Forty-five nodded. He sighed, gathering strength.
Then he, too, struggled up the cable, reaching toward the hands at the privy entrance that were extended to him.
Below, Scott continued to pump air with deadly speed. The bellows creaked and whooshed, and the black flier grunted hard at the effort.
Slowly, one after another, the men crawled out of the tunnel. All were filthy, all were scared, all were relieved to be able to see the surface. One man said, 'That's what dying must be like.' Another said, 'It's like a damn grave in there.'
Every kriegie filled his lungs with air, and more than one took one look at Scott behind the bellows and whispered grateful thanks.
Time seemed to stretch around them dangerously, tugging at each man like the undertow on the beach, threatening to pull them into the shifting currents of deep waters. The tunnel itself, Scott thought, must be a little like drowning. Then he shoved this thought away, and demanded of the next man the only question that seemed to matter to him any longer, 'Have you seen Hart? Where's Hart?'
No one could answer.
Fenelli, who was Number Twenty-eight, pulled himself forward, landing in a heap by Scott's legs. He gestured at the bellows.
'Damn good thing you started to do that,' he hissed.
'Otherwise we'da had unconscious men stuck all over the damn tunnel.
It's almost toxic in there.'
'Where's Hart?' Scott demanded for the hundredth time.
Fenelli shook his head.
'He was at the very front. Outside the wire. Giving the men the go ahead. I don't know where he is, now.'
Scott was filled with the anger of impotence. He didn't know what the hell else he could do, except continue to shoot the lifesaving air down the tunnel.
'You better get out of here,' he grunted.
'They'll help you up topside.'
Fenelli started to rise, then slumped back down. He smiled.
'You know, I have a cousin in the navy. Goddamn submarines.
He wanted me to join up with him, but I told him only a fool would try to swim around under the damn ocean, holding their breath and looking for Japs. You'd never catch me doing anything so stupid, I told him.
Hah! Now, look at me. Twenty feet under the ground, still stuck in a damn prison. It sure is a long way from flying.'
Scott nodded, still working hard. He managed a small smile.
'I think,' Fenelli said, 'I'll stick here with you for a couple of minutes.'
The medic from Cleveland bent over, peering back into the pitch black tunnel. Perhaps sixty seconds passed, and then he reached forward, helping Number Twenty-seven through the last few feet. This was the captain from New York. He, too, dropped immediately to the floor, gasping like a fish out of water.
