traveled past the rows of huts, over the wire, beyond the woods, and all the way across Europe to freedom.
'Mr. Hart…' he said, each word echoing in the small room, 'if you believe nothing else, believe this: I did not kill Vincent Bedford. I may have wanted to. But I did not.'
Lincoln Scott took another deep breath.
'I am innocent,' he said.
Chapter Four
Tommy was momentarily taken aback by the forcefulness of Lincoln Scott's denial. He realized he must have looked astonished because the black flier immediately burst out:
'What's the matter. Hart?'
Tommy shook his head.
'Nothing.'
'Liar,' Scott snorted.
'What was it that you expected me to say, lieutenant? That I killed the racist bastard?'
'No…'
'Then what?'
Tommy took a slow breath, organizing his thoughts.
'I didn't know what you would say. Lieutenant Scott. I hadn't really considered the overall question of your guilt or innocence yet. Only that you are about to be charged with a crime.'
Scott exhaled sharply, and took a few steps around the tiny cooler cell, shrugging his shoulders against the damp cold.
'Can they do that?' he demanded suddenly.
'Do what?'
'Charge me with a crime. Here…' He swung his arm around as if encompassing the entirety of the prisoner-of-war camp.'
'Yes, I believe so. We are technically still under the command of our own officers and members of the army and therefore subject to military discipline. I suppose, technically, you would argue that we are in a combat situation, and consequently controlled by the special regulations that imply…'
Scott shook his head.
'It doesn't make sense,' he said briskly.
'Unless you're black. And then it makes perfectly reasonable sense.
Goddamn it! What the hell did I ever do to them? What conceivable evidence could they have?'
'I don't know. All I know is that Major Clark said there was ample evidence to convict you.'
Scott snorted again.
'Crap,' he said.
'How can there be any evidence when I had nothing to do with the cracker sobs death? And how did it happen, anyway?'
Tommy started to answer, then stopped himself.
'Why don't we talk about you first,' he said slowly.
'Why don't you tell me what happened last night.'
Scott pushed his back up against the gray cement cooler wall, staring up toward the tiny window for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he blew out slowly, turned his gaze on Tommy, and shrugged.
'There's not much to tell,' he said.
'After the afternoon count, I walked a bit. Then I ate alone. I read in my bunk until the Krauts turned off the lights. I rolled over and went to sleep. I woke up once in the middle of the night. Needed to take a leak, so I got up, lit a candle, and went down to the toilet. I did my business, returned to the bunk room, climbed back into the sack, and didn't wake up until the Germans started whistling and shouting.
Next thing I knew, I was in here. Like I told you.'
Tommy tried to imprint every word on his memory. He wished he'd at least brought a notepad and pencil with him, and cursed himself for his forgetfulness. He promised himself he would not make that mistake again.
'Did anyone see you? When you awoke?'
'How would I know?'
'Well, was anyone else in the toilet?'
'No.'
'What were you doing there, that late?'
'I told you…'
'Nobody wakes up and starts walking around in the middle of the night, not here, not now, unless they're sick or they can't sleep because they're afraid of having nightmares.
Maybe back at home you might, but not here. So, which was it?'
Scott smiled briefly, but not at something he found amusing.
'Not exactly a nightmare,' he replied.
'Unless you consider my situation a nightmare, which, of course, is a distinct possibility. More an accommodation.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, Hart,' Scott began slowly, making each word clear and distinct.
'We aren't supposed to be outside after dark. Verboten, right? Krauts might use you for target practice. Of course, guys still do it. Sneak out, dodge the ferrets and the searchlights, slip into the other huts.
The tunnel guys and the escape committee, they like to work at night.
Clandestine, hush-hush meetings and secret work crews. But no one's supposed to know who they are and where they're working. Well, in a way, I'm sort of a highly specialized tunnel rat, myself.'
'I don't get it.'
'Of course you don't get it. I wouldn't expect you to,' Scott said with barely restrained anger. Then he continued, speaking slowly, as if explaining something to a recalcitrant child.
'White guys don't like sharing a toilet with a black man. Not everybody, of course. But enough. And those that don't like it, well, they take this very personally. For example, Captain Vincent Bedford.
He took it extremely personally.'
'What did he say?'
'He said to find another place. Of course, there isn't another place, but that small detail didn't seem to bother him much.'
'How did you reply?'
Lincoln Scott laughed sharply.
'I didn't. Other than to tell him to go screw himself.' Scott took a deep breath, watching Tommy's face.
'Maybe this comes as a surprise to you. Hart? Have you ever been down South? They like things separate down there. White toilets and colored toilets. Anyway, if I go outside, try to use the Abort, I could get shot by some trigger-happy Kraut. So, what do I do? Wait until everyone's asleep, especially that redneck bastard, and I can't hear anybody moving in the corridor, and that's when I go. Quiet as can be. A secret piss, I suppose. At least a piss that doesn't draw too much attention. A piss that avoids all the Vincent Bedfords in this
