special reason. Look at me, man. I ain't more than five feet six. Just barely qualified for fighters wid' my height.
And I usta be a motorman in a subway. Now, that should tell you that maybe because I ain't some big, tall college guy like yourself and
Scott, there, that maybe somebody's got some other type job for me every so often. You know, the type of job where tall ain't no special advantage, yah don't mind much getting your hands dirty, and it sure as hell helps to be usta being underground.'
Tommy nodded.
'I got you.'
The pilot continued.
'You know, the night those guys died, I was supposed to be with 'em.
Hadn't been for my sinuses actin' up, I'da been buried in that sand, too. Right alongside 'em. I been thinking about that a lot.'
'Lucky.'
The fighter pilot caught his words, then continued: 'Yeah.
Guess so. Luck's a funny thing. Sometimes real hard to tell exactly who's got it and who ain't, you follow what I'm saying? Scott, there.
You can ask him about luck. Hart. All fighter jockeys know about luck. Good luck. Bad luck. Whatever the fates got in store for you kinda luck. Goes with the job description.'
'So, what are you saying?'
'What I'm saying is this: I heard, real reliable, that Trader Vic came into some pretty unusual stuff right about that same time. Stuff that some folks in here would find mighty valuable.
Like Kraut identity cards, travel vouchers, and some currency. You know, Reichsmarks and that sort of stuff.
He also came up with something very interesting: a train schedule. The honest-to-God real deal, that bit of info. Now ain't that the sort of information that can only come from one place and costs a helluva lot and that some people around here would do anything to get their hands on. And I do mean anything.'
'When I saw them divvying up Vic's stuff after he was killed I didn't see anything like that,' Tommy said.
'No. And you wouldn't. Because stuff like what we're talking about would go direct to the right folks. No matter how good he's got his stuff stashed, why, those documents and papers and shit would be very dangerous. And you could never be completely sure that the Kraut who traded for the stuff wouldn't come right back at you, searching for your stash with a buncha other goons. And if they found any of that stuff, they'd likely seize just about everything you had before tossing you in the cooler for the next hundred years, so it was stuff you'd be turning over to the right folks real goddamn fast, you see what I'm saying? The folks that have some use for that stuff would know what to do with it, and they would be doing whatever it was real quick, you know?'
'I think I'm getting the picture 'Tommy started, only to have his words sliced off by the captain directly behind him.
'But yah can't, not really, 'cause even I don't get it. Those guys get killed in the tunnel, and then, just afterward, Bedford gets all these valuable papers, schedules and crap that the escape committee needs, whoever the hell they are, bunch of anonymous bastards, if you ask me.
Even when I was digging, I never knew who the hell was planning the show. All they care about is how many yards we done, and how many yards we got left to do. But I did know this: They would give their right arms for those papers…'
The pilot snorted another laugh, as if he'd inadvertently made a joke.
'Hell,' he said briskly, 'then they'd all look just like that goddamn
Nazi, Visser, that's skulking around here and always keeping his beady little eyes on you. Hart.'
Even Tommy smiled at that thought.
The New Yorker coughed, and continued, 'But I'm thinking that the stuff has gotta be worthless to anybody planning an escape, 'cause the Krauts are now dropping satchel charges into the goddamn tunnel and filling it in. The timing don't make sense. I mean, they needed that stuff before the damn tunnel got caved in. Weeks before, so's the forgers can prepare documents and the tailors making escape clothes can work on their stuff and guys heading out can memorize the schedule and practice speaking Kraut. Not after, and that's when Vic got it. Maybe you can dope it out. Hart. But I can't, and it's been on my mind for weeks.
It bothers me.'
Tommy nodded, but didn't reply at first, thinking hard.
'You still digging?' he asked suddenly.
The captain hesitated, then replied with a shrug in his voice.
'Ain't supposed to be answering that question. Hart, and you sure as hell know you ain't supposed to be asking it.'
'Sorry,' Tommy replied.
'You're right.'
The man hesitated slightly, then continued, 'But hell. Hart, I just want out of here. I want out of here so damn bad some days I think it makes me more hungry than anything. I ain't never been locked up before, and I'm damn certain I ain't never gonna be locked up again.
When I get back to Manhattan, let me tell you, I'm gonna be walkin' the straight and narrow, for sure. You get under the ground working, that's what you keep thinkin' about. All that loose sand and dust.
Cave-ins all the damn time. Can't hardly breathe. Can't hardly see.
Man, it's like digging your own grave. Scare the bejeesus out of you.'
At that moment, Hugh, who'd been craning to hear the fighter pilot's words, interjected, 'Maybe one of Vic's friends could provide some answers about where that knife and those documents disappeared to, what do you think?'
The captain from New York burst out in a short, nasty half-cough, half-wheezing tone of amusement.
'Vic's friends?
Friends? Man, have you ever got the wrong impression.'
'What do you mean?
'Tommy asked.
The pilot hesitated, then said slowly, 'You know all those guys, the ones that keep getting into Scott's face? Vic's roommates and the others. The ones causing all the trouble?'
'Yeah, we know 'em,' Hugh said, bitterly.
'Well, they like to say they were Vic's friends. That Vic was taking care of 'em and all that. Load of crap, let me tell you. Absolute one hunnert percent bull. Makes for some sort of real convenient explanation for what they've been doing to Scott, which ain't the way a lot of us in the bag would be playing it, no sir. But let me tell you something, Hart. Trader Vic was all about helping out Trader Vic.
Nobody else. Vic had no friends. None. None whatsoever.'
The man paused, then added, 'That's something you might want to think about.'
From the front of the assembly, a German adjutant shouted, 'Achtung!
Attention!' Tommy craned his head slightly, and saw Von Reiter had arrived at the head of the formations and was receiving obligatory salutes from the ferrets who had finally satisfactorily completed the count. All kriegies present and accounted for. Another day in the bag ready to begin.
MacNamara was summoned forward, where, after the usual momentary exchange between the commanding officers, he turned and dismissed the Allied airmen. As the blocks of men instantly dissolved, Tommy quickly pivoted to try to catch the captain from New York, but the pilot had already melted into the mass of kriegies momentarily milling about before starting another day of captivity. Only this day held out the promise of being far different from all that had gone before.
Tommy had not moved more than ten yards through the dispersing airmen when he heard his name being called and he turned and saw Walker
