front of him. In that hole before him he heard words, grunted, spoken between teeth gritted in the totality of exertion.
'Hart? Damn it! Talk to me! You are not going to die! I will not allow you to die!'
He could feel a great strength pulling him forward, sliding him through the dirt that he'd thought would form his grave.
In the same moment, all the hurts and agonies that had fled, returned, almost blinding him as pain surged once again through his body. But curiously, he welcomed this, for he thought that it meant that Death had decided to loosen its grip upon him.
He heard again, 'You're not going to die, damn it! I will not permit it!'
And so he whispered back, hoarsely, 'Thank you.' It was all he had the energy to say.
Lincoln Scott put both hands on Tommy's shoulders, dug his powerful fingers deep into shirt and flesh, and with a great and violent grunt, tugged him from the cave-in. Then, without hesitation, Scott pulled Tommy ahead, dragging him down the tunnel. Tommy tried to help by crawling, but he could not. He had no more strength. Not even a child's. Instead, he let Scott swim him forward with jerks and twitches, hauling him toward the questionable safety of the tunnel entrance.
At the privy entrance. Major Clark stood, arms folded in front of his chest, blocking the approach of a German lieutenant and a squad of helmeted goons carrying rifles.
'Raus!' the German officer cried.
'Get out of the way!' he added in acceptable but accented English. The officer's uniform was torn at the knee and frayed at the shoulder, and a thin trickle of blood marred his jaw, dripping from the corner of his mouth. The men in the squad had many similar injuries and their uniforms were also ripped and dirtied from the mixup with the kriegies that had come charging out of Hut 107.
'Not a chance,' Major Clark said briskly.
'Not until my men are out.'
The German officer fumed.
'Out of the way! To escape is verboten 'To escape is our duty!' Clark blustered.
'And anyway, no one's escaping, you damn idiot,' Major Clark sneered, still not budging.
'Not anymore! They're coming back. And when they come out, you can have the damn tunnel. For what it's worth.'
The German officer reached into his holster and removed his Luger semiautomatic pistol.
'Out of the way, Herr major, or I will shoot you here!'
To emphasize his words, he chambered a round in the weapon.
Clark shook his head.
'Not moving. Shoot me here, and you will face a hangman's noose, lieutenant. It's your own damn stupid choice.'
The German officer hesitated, then raised his weapon to Clark's face.
Clark eyed him with unrelenting hatred.
'Halt!'
The officer hesitated, then turned. The men in the squad all came abruptly to attention as Commandant Von Reiter strode down the corridor. Von Reiter's face was flushed. His own fury was evident, as prominent as the red silk lining of his dress coat. He stamped his feet hard against the wooden floor.
'Major Clark,' he demanded sharply.
'What is the meaning of this? You are to take your place in the formations immediately!'
Major Clark shook his head again.
'There are men down below. When they come up, I'll accompany them to the Appell' Von Reiter seemed to hesitate, only to have whatever his next command was to be interrupted by Fenelli's excited voice, rising from the tunnel pit entrance.
'He's got 'im! Goddamn it, major! Scott dug him loose! They're coming out!'
Clark turned to the medic.
'Is he okay?'
'Still alive!'
Then Fenelli turned and reached back into the tunnel, helping Lincoln
Scott pull Tommy Hart the final few feet. The two men tumbled into the anteroom, falling exhausted to the litter of dirt. Fenelli dropped down beside Tommy, cradling his head, while Lincoln Scott, breathing hard, tearing gasps of air from the tunnel shaft, slumped to the side.
Fenelli produced a canteen with water, which he dripped onto Tommy's face.
'Jesus, Hart,' Fenelli whispered.
'You must be the luckiest son of a bitch I know.'
Then he looked down at Tommy's mangled hand and gasped.
'Or maybe the unluckiest. Jesus, that's a mess. How the hell did that happen?'
'A dog bit me,' Tommy answered weakly.
'Some dog,' Fenelli said. Then he whispered another question.
'What the hell happened out there?'
Tommy shook his head and replied softly, 'I got out. Not for long. But
I got out.'
'Well,' the medic from Cleveland replied, through his wide, dirt-smeared grin, 'you made it farther than I did, and at least that's something.'
He reached down, passed an arm under Tommy's shoulder, and helped Tommy rise to his feet. Scott grunted, and scrambled up as well. It took a minute or two for the two of them to lift Tommy through the pit, to the surface, where German hands seized him and angrily thrust him to the floor of the corridor.
Tommy had no idea what was next, only that he felt drunk with the heady taste of air. He did not think he had the strength to rise on his own, nor was he at all sure he could walk, if the Germans demanded it. All he could feel was immense pain and a similar store of gratitude, as if the two conflicting sensations were more than happy to share space deep within him.
He was aware that Lincoln Scott stood nearby, at Major Clark's side, as if standing guard. Fenelli, however, bent toward him again, lifting
Tommy's hand up.
'This is a mess,' the medic said again. Fenelli turned toward
Commandant Von Reiter.
'He needs medical attention for these wounds immediately.'
Von Reiter bent down, inspecting the hand. He staggered back slightly, as if shocked at the sight. The German seemed to hesitate, but then he reached forward and slowly and gingerly unwrapped the handkerchief from around the torn flesh. Von Reiter took the handkerchief and placed it in his tunic pocket, ignoring the deep wet crimson blood that stained the white silk. He frowned at the extent of Tommy's injury. He could see that the index finger was almost entirely severed and deep gouges and gashes marred the palm and the other fingers. Then he looked up and abruptly turned to the German lieutenant.
'A field dressing, lieutenant! Immediately.'
The German officer saluted, and gestured toward one of the goons, still standing nearby at attention. The German soldier pulled a paper-covered pad of gauze impregnated with sulfa from a leather compartment on his campaign belt and handed it to Commandant Von Reiter, who, in turn, passed it to Fenelli.
'Do what you are able, lieutenant,' Von Reiter said gruffly.
'This won't be adequate, commandant,' Fenelli replied.
'He'll need real medicines and a real doctor.'
Von Reiter shrugged.
'Bind it tightly,' he said.
Then the German commandant rose stiffly and turned to Major Clark.
'These men,' he said, gesturing toward Fenelli, Scott, and Hart.
