education. And thus did I get caught up in the great things that took place in my country.'
Visser swung his eyes toward the funeral.
'Your Colonel MacNamara,' the German said slowly, his eyes measuring the SAO carefully.
'My first impression is that he is a man who believes his imprisonment at Stalag Luft Thirteen is a black mark on his career. A failure of command. I cannot tell, sometimes, when he looks at me, whether he hates me and all Germans because that is what he has been taught, or whether he hates me because I am preventing him from killing more of my countrymen. And I think, in all these hatreds, he perhaps hates himself, as well. What do you think. Lieutenant Hart? Is he a commanding officer you respect? Is he the sort of leader who gives a command and men follow instantly, without question, without regard to their own lives and safety?'
'He is the Senior American Officer, and he is respected.'
The German did not look at Tommy, but he laughed.
'Ah, lieutenant, already you have the makings of a diplomat.'
He took a single, long puff on the cigarette, then dropped it to the dirt, grinding it under the toe of his boot.
'Have you the makings of an advocate? I wonder.'
Visser smiled, then continued, 'And is that what is truly required of you? I wonder about this, too.'
The Hauptmann turned to Tommy.
'A funeral is so rarely about finality, isn't this true, lieutenant?
Are they not really much more the beginning of something?'
Visser's smile bent around the corner of his mouth, twisting with the scars. Then he turned away, once again watching the proceedings. The pastor's voice had moved on to a reading from the New Testament, the story of the loaves and fishes, a poor choice because it would probably make all the assembled kriegies hungry. Tommy saw that there was no flag draping the coffin, but that Vic's leather flight jacket, with the American flag sewn onto the sleeve, had been carefully folded and placed in the center of the box.
The pastor finished reading and the formations came to attention.
A trumpeter stepped from the ranks and blew the soulful notes of taps.
As these faded into the midday air, the squad of German soldiers stepped to the front, lifted their weapons to their shoulders, and fired a single volley into the clearing sky, almost as if they were blasting away the remaining gray clouds and carving a hole of blue.
The noise of the shots echoed briefly. It was not lost on Tommy that the sound was the same as it would be if the same six soldiers were gathered into a firing squad.
Four men stepped from the formation and, using ropes, lowered Trader
Vic's coffin into the ground. Then Major Clark gave the order to dismiss, and the men turned away, walking in groups back into the middle of the compound.
More than a few stared at Tommy Hart as they moved past him. But no one said a word.
He, in turn, met many pairs of eyes, his own gaze narrowed and hard. He guessed that the men who'd threatened him were in the knots of passing airmen. But who they might be he had no idea. No single pair of eyes spoke to him with a threat.
Visser lit another cigarette and started humming the French tune
'Aupres de ma Blonde,' which had a lilt to it that seemed to insult the ragged solemnity of the funeral.
Tommy abruptly saw Major Clark striding toward him.
Clark's face was rigid, his jaw thrust forward.
'Hart,' he said briskly.
'You are not welcome here.'
Tommy came to attention.
'Captain Bedford was my friend, as well, major,' he replied, although he wasn't sure this was completely true.
Clark did not reply to this, but turned instead to the Hauptmann, saluting.
'Hauptmann Visser, will you please see to the release of Lieutenant
Scott, the accused, into Lieutenant Hart's custody. Now is certainly a reasonable time.'
Visser saluted in return, smiling.
'As you wish, major. I will see to it immediately.'
Clark nodded. He glanced again at Tommy.
'Not welcome,' he said again, as he turned and strode away. Behind him, Tommy could hear the first thudding sound of a clod of dirt being shoveled onto the lid of Trader Vic's coffin.
Hauptmann Visser escorted Tommy Hart back to the cooler to release Lincoln Scott. Along the way, the German officer signaled to a pair of helmeted guards and to Fritz Number One to accompany them. He continued to hum brisk, lively cabaret tunes. The sky above them had finally completely cleared, the last wisps of gray clouds fleeing toward the east. Tommy looked up and spotted the white contrails of a flight ofB-17s crossing the plate of watery blue. It would not be long before they were attacked, he thought. But they were still high, maybe five miles up, and still relatively safe. When they dropped through the sky toward the lower altitudes for the bombing run, then they were in the greatest danger.
He looked across at the squat, ugly cooler and thought the same was true for Lincoln Scott. For a moment he thought that it might be safer to leave him in confinement, but then, almost as quickly, the thought fled. He squared his shoulders and realized that what he faced was no different from the airmen in the sky above him. A mission, an objective, their passage threatened the entire route. He stole one more glance skyward, and thought that he could do no less than those men above him.
Scott was on his feet instantly as Tommy entered the cell.
'Damn, Hart, I am ready to get out of here,' he said.
'What a hellhole.'
'I'm not sure what to expect,' Tommy replied.
'We'll just have to take it as it comes.'
'I'm ready,' Scott insisted.
'I just want out of here. Whatever happens, happens.' The black man seemed knotted, coiled, and ready to burst.
Tommy nodded.
'All right. We will walk across the compound directly to Hut 101. You will go straight to your bunk room. When we get there, we'll consider our next step.'
Scott nodded.
The black flier blinked hard when they emerged into the daylight. For a moment, he rubbed his eyes, as if to clear the darkness of the cooler cell away from them. He was clutching his clothing and his blanket beneath his left arm, leaving the right free. His fist was clenched tight, as if he was ready to throw the same roundhouse that he'd sent whistling at Hugh Renaday earlier that morning. As his eyes adjusted, Scott seemed to stand more upright, regaining his athleticism, so that by the time the group reached the gate, he was striding with a military purposefulness, almost as if he were marching on the edge of a West Point parade ground, readying himself to pass in review of a group of dignitaries. Tommy stayed at his side, in turn flanked by the two guards, a step behind Fritz Number One and Hauptmann Visser.
At the barbed-wire and wood-framed gate to the southern camp, the German officer stopped. He spoke a quick few words to Fritz Number One, who saluted, then another few words to the guards.
'Do you wish for an escort back to your hut?' he asked Lincoln Scott.
'No,' Scott replied.
Visser smiled.
'Perhaps Lieutenant Hart will see the value in an escort?'
Tommy took a quick look through the wire at the compound.
A few groups of men were out; things looked normal.
