'So, whatever it was that put both Vic and Fritz Number One out and abroad in the midst of considerable danger had to be something extremely valuable to the both of them…'
Pryce mused.
'And something that was best hidden from everyone else in the camp.'
'You're assuming that it was the same thing that brought them out. We don't know that,' Tommy said sharply.
'But, I suspect, it is the avenue we are obligated to travel,' Pryce said with determination. He turned to Tommy.
'Do you see something in all this, Thomas?'
And Tommy did.
'Something best hidden…' An electric idea raced through his imagination. He was about to speak, when the thoughts of all three men were sharply interrupted by a sudden burst of shouts and alarm coming from outside the wire, past the main gate. In unison, all three turned toward the noise, and as they did, they stiffened as they heard the staccato sound of a weapon being fired, the crack of the rifle riveting the afternoon air.
'What the bloody hell…' Hugh started to ask.
Almost instantly, a detachment of guards, their uniforms hastily thrown on, but bearing weapons at port arms, emerged from a building in the administration compound. The soldiers were jamming steel helmets onto their heads, trying to button their tunics. The squad took off sharply, running down the road past the commandant's office, a Feldwebel shouting hurried instructions. No sooner had the air filled with the heavy tread of their boots slapping into the hard dirt road, than at least a half-dozen ferrets blasting away at their whistles came racing through the front gate, screaming obscenities and urgent commands between shrill shrieks from their whistles.
The siren that was ordinarily used only for air raids started up, wailing loudly. Tommy, Hugh, and Pryce all saw Fritz Number One in the midst of the group. The German spotted them and, waving his arms wildly, roared angrily: 'In formation!
Line up! Line up! Raus! Schnell! Immediately! We must count!'
None of the ferret's usual wheedling jocularity was contained in any of the words. His voice was high-pitched, insistent, and frantically demanding. He pointed a finger at Tommy.
'You! Lieutenant Hart! You are to stand to the side and be counted with the British!'
Another nearby volley of rifle shots creased the air.
Without any further explanation, Fritz Number One raced into the center of the camp, continuing to shout commands.
As he passed, the parade ground began to fill with British airmen, all struggling into their jackets, pulling on boots, jamming caps on their heads, hurrying toward the unexpected Appell. Tommy turned to his two companions, only to hear Phillip Pryce feverishly whisper a single wonderful, yet terrible, altogether heart- stopping word:
'Escape!'
The British airmen stood at attention in their assembly yard for nearly an hour, as ferrets moved up and down the rows of men, counting and recounting, swearing in German, refusing to answer any questions, especially the most important.
Tommy lingered perhaps a half-dozen yards to the side of the last block of men, flanked on either side by two other American officers who'd also been caught inside the British compound when the escape attempt took place. Tommy only barely recognized the two other Americans; one was a chess champion from Hut 120 who frequently bribed goons to let him pass over to where the competition was better. The other was a slender actor from New York who'd been enlisted by the British for one of their theatrical performances. The onetime fighter pilot made a more than convincing blond bombshell, when decked out in homemade wig, cheap makeup, and a slinky black evening gown refashioned by the camp's tailors from scraps of worn and tattered uniforms, and was therefore in demand in both compounds' theatrical productions.
'Still can't figure what fer Christ's sakes is going on,' the chess master whispered, 'but the Krauts sure look angry as hell.'
'Lotsa talk. And a couple of those formations look to be shy more than a couple of men,' the actor replied.
'Think they'll keep us here much longer?'
'You know the damn Germans,' Tommy replied softly.
'If there's only nine guys standing where yesterday there were ten, well, hell, they've got to count maybe a hundred times over and over, just to make sure they're right…'
Both the other Americans grunted in assent.
'Hey,' the chess champion muttered, 'look who's coming.
The Big Cheese, himself. And ain't that the new little cheese, right at his side? The guy who's supposed to be watching over your show, right. Hart?'
Tommy looked across the compound and saw that a red-faced Oberst Von Reiter, in full dress uniform, as if he'd been interrupted on the way to an important meeting, was striding down the steps of the main office building. Trailing behind him, in his usual slightly rumpled, much less spit-and-polished appearance, was Hauptmann Heinrich Visser. In contrast to Von Reiter's hard-edged eyes and ramrod bearing, Visser seemed to have a faint look of amusement on his face.
But Visser's half-smile could just as easily have been a look of cruelty, Tommy thought, which probably spoke a great deal about the sort of man he was.
The two officers were trailed by a substantial squad of goons, all bearing machine pistols or rifles. In the midst of this group, close to two dozen British officers, all in various forms of undress-including two totally naked men-emerged from the camp offices. One man was limping slightly. The two naked men wore immense grins on their faces. All seemed cheery, and more than slightly pleased with themselves, despite the fact that they were marched forward with their hands clasped behind their heads.
The actor and the chess champion saw the same contrast between the Germans and the English at the same moment Tommy did. But the chess champion whispered, 'The limeys might think this is something of a joke, but I'll bet the house that Von Reiter doesn't find it all so damn funny.'
The officers and the captured men marched past the gate and came to a rest at the front of the formations of British airmen. The Senior British Officer, a mustachioed, ruddy-faced bomber pilot with a shock of reddish hair streaked with gray, stepped to the front, calling the men in their ranks to attention, and several thousand sets of heels clicked together smartly. Von Reiter glared at the SBO, then turned to the rows of airmen.
'You British, you think war is some game? Some sort of sport, like your cricket or rugby?' he demanded in a loud, angry voice that carried over the heads of the assembled men.
'You think we play at this?'
Von Reiter's fury fell like a thunderstorm on their heads.
No one replied. The captured men behind him slowly grew silent.
'It is all a joke to you?'
From within the ranks a single voice called out in a heavy mock-Cockney accent: 'Anything to break the bleedin' monotony, guv'nah!'
There was laughter, which faded quickly under Von Reiter's glare. His eyes flashed with rage.
'I can assure you that the Luftwaffe High Command does not consider escape to be a laughing matter.'
From another section, a different voice, this time with an Irish lilt, answered, 'Well then, boyo, the joke's on you this time!'
Another smattering of laughs, which again ceased almost instantly.
'Is it now? 'Von Reiter asked coldly.
The Senior British Officer stepped forward. Tommy could hear him quietly reply, somewhat contradictorily, 'But my dear Commandant Von
