After the hearing, they left Lincoln Scott alone in his bunk room. The black flier had been electric, excited, by the morning's action. He had shaken hands with both Tommy Hart and Hugh Renaday, and then suddenly dropped to the floor and started in on rapid-fire push-ups.
They made plans to meet later in the day to map out their next step, and Tommy left Scott behind, the Tuskegee airman dancing lightly in a corner of the room, shadowboxing imaginary opponents, snapping hard left jabs and swooping right haymakers, using the bright midday light that filtered through the bunk-room windows and threw just enough darkness into the corners to create the shadows necessary for the mock-fight.
Hugh spotted a ferret snooping around Hut 105, probing the dirt in a small garden by the side of the barracks. The ferret demanded three cigarettes to accompany the two men back to the British camp, where they intended to inform Phillip Pryce about the morning's session.
Tommy negotiated him down to two smokes, and the three men rapidly crossed the exercise area, heading to the front gate. A baseball game had started up, and there were some men doing calisthenics on the side, calling out numbers in unison. Both groups paused slightly as they passed by-not stopping what they were doing, but slowing, taking note.
Tommy braced for a verbal onslaught, but nothing was said in their direction, no catcalls, no obscenities, no epithets.
He took this as a positive sign. If they'd managed to sow some doubt amid the kriegies with the forcefulness of Lincoln Scott's words of denial, then that was good. Perhaps the same questions were rooting in the minds of the three judges.
He wished he knew more about the two officers who sat by MacNamara's side on the tribunal. He made a mental note to find out who they were and where they came from, and how they'd arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen. He wondered whether the circumstances of each kriegie's capture wasn't some sort of window on who they were, or who they might become, and thought to ask Phillip Pryce about this. He thought, too, that he needed to understand the SAO better, as when all was said and done, he doubted whether the two men flanking him on the tribunal would vote against him. He recalled what Phillip Pryce had said on the first day-'all the forces at work'-and reminded himself to take better care of answering that question.
He found himself walking swiftly, almost a half-trot, as if the weight of the things he needed to do was prodding him in the back. He guessed that some of the same thoughts were powering Hugh as well, because the Canadian was keeping pace without complaint or question. The German ferret, however, dragged behind lazily, and more than once the two airmen gestured for him to hurry.
'Tommy,' Hugh said quietly, 'we need to find the murder location. Every hour that passes it gets colder. The man we're looking for has had more than enough opportunity to cover it up. In fact, I have my doubts we'll ever find it.'
Tommy nodded his reply, but said, 'I have an idea, but I need to wait just a little longer.'
Hugh snorted once and shook his head.
'We'll never find it,' he repeated.
The gate swung open for them-Tommy took note that the regular gate goons were becoming accustomed to their back and forth travels, which he thought might be a valuable thing, although he didn't know precisely how. They continued through the area between the camps. There was singing coming from the shower house, and Renaday started to hum along as they both recognized the words to 'Mademoiselle from Armentieres,' bellowed at the usual high volume: '… Mademoiselle from Armentieres, parlez-vous? Mademoiselle from Armentieres, parlez-vous? Mademoiselle from Armentieres, hasn't been fucked in forty years, hinky-stinky parlez- vous…'
Like many of the British songs, this one dated back to the First World War, and grew increasingly ribald.
Tommy had his attention on the shower house when he suddenly heard the brusque, harsh German command from behind, overcoming the echoes of the song: 'Halt!'
The ferret instantly snapped his cigarette from his lips and came to attention. Hugh and Tommy swung toward the sound of the voice. As they pivoted they saw an adjutant in shirtsleeves half-running down the steps from the administration building and crossing the dusty road toward them. This was unusual. German officers did not like to be seen by the kriegies in anything less than full uniform, nor did they ever like to appear rushed, unless someone higher up on the chain of command had issued an order.
The adjutant hurried up to them. His English was fractured, but he was able to make himself clear: 'Hart, pliss vit me. You, Renaday, back to home…'
He pointed at the British compound ahead, 'What's this about?' Tommy demanded.
'Vit me, pliss,' the adjutant said. He waved his arms to add some urgency to his words.
'Not to want to keep waiting, pliss…'
'I still want to know what this is all about,' Tommy replied. The
German officer's face seemed to contract, and he stamped his foot once, raising a dusty puff of dirt.
'Is ordered. See Commandant Von Reiter.'
Renaday's right eyebrow shot up.
'Now, isn't that interesting,' he said quietly. He turned to the ferret, who had not moved a muscle.
'Okay, Adolf, let's go. Tommy, I'll be waiting with Phillip. Very curious summons, this,' he added.
The German officer seemed immensely relieved that Tommy was willing to accompany him, and he held the door open for the American as they stepped inside the administration building. Several of the clerks sitting behind desks looked up curiously as he entered, but then when the officer followed, they dutifully returned their eyes to whatever documents they had in front of them. German military bureaucracy was steady and thorough; more than anything, it sometimes seemed, they hated the ingenuity and creativity of their prisoners. Tommy was pushed once in the direction of the commandant's office, which made him stop, pivot, stare at the adjutant with a narrow gaze. When the officer stepped back, dropping his hands, Tommy turned again and walked sharply across the floor and pulled open the door to Von Reiter's room.
The commandant was behind his desk, waiting. A single, uncomfortable chair was arranged in front of the desk, for Hart to sit in, which he did, as Von Reiter gestured toward it.
But as soon as he sat, the German immediately rose to his feet so that he towered above Tommy. Von Reiter, too, was in shirtsleeves, his tailored white shirt glistening in the light pouring through a wide window that overlooked the two compounds. The starched collar pushed at the officer's ruddy throat. The jet black Iron Cross he wore around his neck gleamed against the immaculate shirtfront. His dress jacket hung from a hook on the wall, a polished black leather gun belt with a Luger in a holster hanging next to it. The commandant walked over to his jacket and brushed a piece of imaginary lint from the lapel. Then he turned to Tommy.
'Lieutenant Hart,' he said slowly, 'your work goes well?'
'We are only in the beginning stages, Herr commandant,' Tommy answered carefully.
'And certainly Hauptmann Visser can fill you in with whatever details you require.'
Von Reiter nodded, and returned to his seat.
'Hauptmann Visser is, how do you put it? Staying in touch?'
'He takes his job seriously. He seems most attentive.'
Von Reiter moved his head in a half-nod.
'You are here many months, lieutenant. An old-timer, as Americans say.
Tell me, Mr. Hart, you find life at Stalag Luft Thirteen to be… acceptable?'
This question surprised Tommy, but he tried to withhold any sign of this sensation. He shrugged, in an exaggerated fashion.
'I'd rather be home, Herr commandant. But I am also glad to be alive.'
Von Reiter nodded and smiled.
'This is the one quality all soldiers share, true. Hart? No matter how harsh life is, it is still
