of us, all right. Vic was gonna get us all through the war alive and in one piece, and the nigger you're gonna help took all that away from us.'
The man rose, pivoting sharply, staring at Tommy Hart.
'MacNamara and Clark themselves come on in here, tell us to pack up, we're moving out. Gonna leave the nigger in here alone, 'cept maybe for you. Good thing, Hart. I don't think the black bastard would have made it to his fucking trial. Vic was one of us. Maybe even the best of us. At least the man knew who his friends were, and he watched out for them.'
The flier paused, narrowing his gaze.
'Tell me, Hart. You know who your friends are?'
It was nearly dark by the time Tommy Hart managed to return to Scott's cooler cell. He'd talked one of his reluctant bunkmates out of a spare olive-colored turtleneck sweater the man had been sent from home. He'd also obtained a pair of size thirteen army-issue shoes from a modest stockpile kept by the kriegies in charge of distributing Red Cross parcels. The collection of clothes was supposed to go to men who arrived at the prisoner-of-war camp with their uniforms in tatters after having bailed out of stricken warplanes. He'd also taken two thin blankets from Scott's bunk, along with a tin of processed meat, some canned peaches, and half a loaf of nearly stale kriegsbrot. The guard outside the cooler cell seemed hesitant to allow the items inside until Tommy offered him a pair of cigarettes, and then he was waved ahead, Shadows already filled the cell, creeping in through the solitary window vent near the ceiling, making the cooler's air cold and gray. The stark overhead bulb was weak and dim and seemed defeated by the onset of night.
As before, Scott was hunched down in a corner. He rose stiffly as Tommy entered the cell.
'I did what I could,' Tommy said, handing over the clothes.
Scott grabbed for them eagerly.
'Jesus,' he said, tugging on the sweater and then the shoes, throwing a blanket across his shoulders and, almost in the same motion, grabbing for the can of peaches. He ripped open the lid and drained the sweet and sticky contents in a single gulp. Then he started to work on the tinned meat.
'Take your time, make it last,' Tommy said quietly.
'It will fill you up better that way.'
Scott paused, his fingers filled with a morsel of meat halfway to his mouth. The black flier considered what Hart had said and then nodded.
'That's right. But damn, Hart, I'm starved.'
'Everyone's always hungry, lieutenant. You know that. The question is: To what degree? You say 'I'm starved' back home, and all it means is that it's been maybe six hours since you ate last and you're ready to sit down and tuck in. Pot roast, maybe. With steamed vegetables and spring potatoes and lots of gravy. Or a pan-fried steak with french fries. And lots of gravy. Here, of course, 'I'm starved' means something much closer to the truth, doesn't it? And if you were one of those poor Russian bastards that went marching by the other day, then, well, 'I'm starved' to them would be even closer to reality, wouldn't it? It wouldn't just be a couple of words. A throwaway phrase. Not at all.'
Scott paused again, this time chewing his bite of food slowly, deliberately.
'You are correct, Hart. And a philosopher as well.'
'Stalag Luft Thirteen brings out the contemplative side of my nature.'
'That's because the one thing we all have in abundance is time.'
'That's true.'
'Except, perhaps, for me,' Scott said. Then he shrugged and managed a small smile.
'Fried chicken,' he said quietly.
Then he laughed outward, a single burst.
'Fried chicken with greens and mashed potatoes. The typical black folks' Sunday afternoon at home after church with the preacher coming to dinner meal. But damn, cooked just right, with a little garlic in the potatoes and some pepper on the chicken to give it a little bite.
Cornbread on the side and with a cold beer or a glass of fresh lemonade to wash it all down…'
'And gravy,' Tommy said. He closed his eyes for an instant.
'Lots of thick, dark gravy…'
'Yes. Lots of gravy. The type that's so thick, you can hardly pour it out of the container…'
'That you can stick a spoon in, and it'll stand upright.'
Scott laughed a second time. Tommy offered him a cigarette, which the black flier took.
'These things are supposed to cut the appetite,' he said, inhaling.
'I wonder if that's true.'
Scott looked down at the empty tins.
'You think they'll give me a fried chicken dinner for my last meal?' he asked.
'I mean, isn't that traditional? Condemned man gets his choice before facing the firing squad.'
'That's a ways off,' Tommy said sharply.
'We aren't there yet' Scott shook his head fatalistically.
'Anyway, Hart, thanks for the food and the clothes. I'll try to pay you back.'
Tommy took a deep breath.
'Tell me. Lieutenant Scott. If you didn't kill Vincent Bedford, who did? And why?'
Scott turned away. He blew a smoke ring up toward the ceiling, watching it waft back and forth and then dissipate in the gloom and growing darkness.
'I haven't the slightest idea,' he answered sharply. He tugged the blanket draped around his shoulders tight to his body, then slowly lowered himself into the corner of the cooler, almost as if he were descending into a pool of still, dark waters.
Fritz Number One was waiting outside the cooler entrance to escort Tommy back into the American compound. The ferret was smoking, and shuffling his feet nervously. He tossed the half-smoked cigarette away when Tommy emerged from the cooler, which surprised him, because Fritz Number One was a true addict to tobacco, just like Hugh, usually burning the cigarettes down to their stubs before reluctantly discarding them.
'It is late, lieutenant,' the ferret said.
'Lights out will be soon. You must be in your quarters.'
'Let's go, then,' Tommy said.
The two men marched deliberately toward the gate under the gaze of a pair of machine gunners in the nearest tower, and a Hundfuhrer and his dog that were readying themselves to check the perimeter. The dog barked once at Tommy before being hushed by its handler with a jerk on the glistening metal chain around its neck.
The gate creaked shut behind them and the two men continued wordlessly across the assembly ground, heading toward Hut 101. Tommy thought he would probably have more questions for Fritz Number One at some later point. But at this moment, he was mostly intrigued by the ferret's fast pace.
'We should hurry,' the German said.
'What's the rush?' Tommy asked.
'No rush,' Fritz replied, and then contradicting himself again, added,
'You must be in your bunk room. Quick.'
The two men reached the alleyway between huts. The fastest route to
Hut 101 led down that way. But Fritz Number One grabbed Tommy by the arm, tugging him toward the outside of Hut 103.
'We should go this way,' the ferret insisted.
Tommy stopped in his tracks. He pointed ahead.
'That's the right way,' he said.
Fritz Number One pulled at his arm a second time.
