'Well, not precisely, Phillip,' Hugh said.
'Three of the men-the true authors of the scheme, so I gather-had civilian clothing underneath their uniforms, which they planned to shed in the forest. They also had excellent forged papers. Or so I'm told.
They were the ones who were supposed to make it out. The others were mainly to cause some trouble and consternation for the Krauts.'
'I wonder,' Tommy asked slowly, 'if anyone had known of this new order that allegedly allows for the shooting of prisoners, whether they would have volunteered for a diversion so readily.'
'You're dead on, there, Tommy,' Hugh answered.
'It's one thing to muck around with the Krauts if all it's going to cost you is a fortnight in the cooler singing 'roll out the barrel…' and shivering through the night. A whole different thing if the bastards are going to put you in front of a firing squad. You think it was some sort of bluff? I can't believe…'
'Yeah, you're right,' Tommy said with a brisk confidence that was perhaps ill-placed.
'They can't go around shooting prisoners of war. Why, there would be hell to pay.'
Pryce shook his head and held up his hand, cutting off the conversation.
'A prisoner of war is supposed to be in uniform, and he's supposed to provide his name, rank, and serial number, when demanded. A man in a suit of clothes carrying phony identity cards and forged work permits?
That man could easily be taken for a spy. When do you stop being the one and start being the other?'
Pryce took a deep breath.
'We shoot spies. Without any due process. And so do the Germans.'
He looked closely at the two airmen and nodded his head slowly.
'I have no doubt that Von Reiter will do precisely that, in the future,' he said.
'I believe our lads, clever as they might have been, were in serious jeopardy there for several minutes. Jeopardy they might not have foreseen. Von Reiter may not be some brown-shirted fanatic Nazi, but he surely is a German officer, through and through. There's probably generations of stiffly Teutonic service to the fatherland running in his quite cold veins. Give Von Reiter a direct and unambiguous order, and he'll follow it to the letter. Without question.'
'That is,' Tommy interrupted, 'if he actually did receive such an order. He could have just been blowing smoke.'
Hugh nodded.
'Tommy's got a point, Phillip.'
Pryce smiled.
'Tommy, it seems to me that you're learning subtlety rapidly. Of course, it makes little difference to us whether he received that order or not as long as we stay put, right here in our delightful accommodations. But the threat of shooting… well, that's real enough, isn't it? And so Von Reiter achieves much of what he desires merely by raising the ugly possibility of firing squads. The only way to test the truth is to escape…'
'And be caught,' Tommy finished the sentence.
Pryce sighed.
'Von Reiter is a clever man. Do not underestimate him just because he looks like some Saturday morning puppet show character in those clothes of his.' The onetime barrister coughed again, and added, 'A cruel man, I think. Cruel and ambitious. Traits he shares, I suppose, with that slimy weasel Visser. A dangerous concoction, that…'
As he spoke, all three men became aware of the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor. Boots hitting the wooden planks with precision.
'Goons!' Hugh muttered.
Before the two others had time to respond, the door to the small bunk room flew open, revealing Heinrich Visser. Behind him stood a dwarfish man, paunchy and barely over five feet in height, wearing a poorly cut black business suit, holding in his hands a black homburg hat that he nervously fondled. The man peered out into the room from behind thick glasses. Standing just to the rear were four heavyset German soldiers, each with a weapon held at the ready. Within seconds of their arrival, the corridor behind them filled with curious British airmen torn from the casino of mouse roulette by the appearance of the armed men.
Visser stepped into the narrow bunk room, eyeing the three men.
'Ah, perhaps we are engaged in a strategy session? A critical discussion of the facts and the law, wing commander?'
Visser addressed his question to Pryce.
'Tommy has much work to do, and little time remaining.
We were lending him what expertise our experience allows.
This should not come as much of a surprise to you, Hauptmann,' Pryce replied.
Visser shook his head slowly. He fingered his chin with his sole hand, as if thinking.
'And do you make progress, wing commander? Does the defense of Lieutenant Scott begin to take shape?'
'We have little time, and so we raise questions. We are still seeking answers,' Pryce responded.
'Ah, such is the lot of any true philosopher,' Visser said, musing.
'And you, Mr. Renaday, with your policeman's heart, have you found any hard facts that assist you in this search?'
Hugh scowled at the German. He gestured around the room.
'These walls are facts,' he said contemptuously.
'The wire is a fact. The machine-gun towers are facts. Beyond that, I haven't much to say to you, Hauptmann' Visser smiled, ignoring the insult contained in the words and tones of the Canadian's response.
Tommy did not like the fact that Visser seemed oblivious to insult.
There was a dangerousness in the officer's mocking smile.
'And you, Mr. Hart, have you come to rely greatly on Mr. Pryce?'
Tommy hesitated, unable to see where the German was heading with his questions.
'I welcome his analysis,' he responded carefully.
'It is comforting to have such an expert at your side, no? A famous barrister, when your own expertise in these type of matters is so unfortunately limited?' Visser persisted.
'Yes, it is.'
The German grinned. Pryce coughed twice, holding his hand over his mouth. Visser pivoted toward the old man, as if drawn to the sound.
'Your health, wing commander, it improves?'
'Not bloody likely in this rat hole,' Hugh muttered ferociously.
Pryce shot a quick glance at his blustering Canadian companion, then replied, 'My health is fine, Hauptmann. My cough lingers, as you can readily see. But my strength is fine, and I eagerly look forward to the remaining time I have here, before my countrymen arrive one fine day at the front gates and then proceed to shoot the bloody lot of you.'
Visser laughed as if what Pryce had said was somehow a joke.
'Spoken like a warrior,' he said, continuing to grin.
'But I fear, wing commander, that your bravery masks your illness. Your stoicism in the face of such sickness is admirable.'
He stared at Pryce, the smile fading into a chilling, deep look that spoke of great hatred whirling around within him, not so much hidden as encapsulated.
'Yes,' Visser continued slowly, nastily, 'I fear you are more sick than you are willing to let on to your comrades. Far more sick.'
'I'm fine,' Pryce repeated.
