But an immediate answer was not forthcoming. The men remained at attention for another thirty minutes, occasionally shuffling their feet against the cold, shivering. Thankfully, the drizzle stopped, but the skies above them lightened only dully as the sun rose, revealing a wide gray world.
After nearly an hour, the kriegies saw Colonel MacNamara and Major Clark accompany Oberst Von Reiter through the front gate, and disappear into the camp office building. They had still not been counted, which Tommy found surprising. He did not know what was going on, and his curiosity was energized. Anything out of the routine of camp life, he thought, was to be welcomed in its own way. Anything that was different, anything that reminded them that they were not isolated. In a way, he hoped the Germans had discovered another tunnel. He liked acts of defiance, even if he wasn’t altogether comfortable issuing them himself. He liked it when Bedford threw the bread to the Russians. He was pleased, although surprised, at Lincoln Scott’s rashness at the wire. He liked anything that reminded him that he wasn’t merely a kriegie, but an actual person. But these things were few and far between.
After another lengthy wait, Fritz Number One came to the head of the formations. In a loud voice, he announced, “At ease. The morning count will be delayed for a few moments more. You may smoke. Do not leave your position.”
The captain from New York called out, “Hey, Fritz! Whadda ’bout letting us go take a leak. Some of the guys gotta go real bad.”
Fritz Number One shook his head sharply.
“Not allowed. Not yet. Verboten,” he said.
The kriegies grumbled, but relaxed. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted about him. Tommy, however, noticed that Fritz Number One, who by all rights should have immediately cadged a smoke off some prisoner, remained standing, his eyes searching over the columns of men. After a few seconds, Tommy saw that Fritz Number One had spotted the man he was looking for, and the ferret strode forward toward the men from Hut 101.
Fritz Number One approached Lincoln Scott.
“Lieutenant Scott,” the ferret said in a normal, but low voice, “you will please to accompany me to the commandant’s office.”
Tommy saw the black airman hesitate for an instant, then step forward. “If you wish,” Scott said.
The pilot and the ferret then quick-marched across the assembly ground and through the front gate. Two guards swung it open for them, closing it just as swiftly behind them.
For a second or two, the formations of men were quiet. Then abruptly voices picked up, like the wind right before a storm.
“What the hell?”
“What do the Krauts want with him?”
“Hey, anybody know what fer Christ’s sake is going on?”
Tommy kept quiet. Now his curiosity was racing, fueled by the voices around him. It’s all very strange, he thought. Strange because it is out of the ordinary. Strange because nothing like this has ever happened before.
The men continued grumbling and muttering for nearly another hour. By now, whatever morning was going to penetrate the gloomy skies had managed its weak efforts and whatever warmth the day could promise had arrived. Not much, Tommy thought. The men were hungry. Many had to go to the toilets. All were wet and cold.
And all were curious.
A few moments later, Fritz Number One again appeared at the gate. The guards opened it and he half-ran through, heading straight for the men from Hut 101. Fritz Number One was slightly red-faced, but there was nothing in his approach that indicated anything about what was going on.
“Lieutenant Hart,” he said, coughing back short gasps of breath, “would you please come with me now to the commandant’s office?”
From directly behind him, Tommy heard a man whisper, “Tommy, get the lowdown on what’s going on, will ya?”
“Please, Lieutenant Hart, right away, please,” Fritz Number One pleaded. “I do not like to keep Herr Oberst Von Reiter waiting.”
Tommy stepped forward to the ferret’s side.
“What’s going on, Fritz?” he asked quietly.
“Just to hurry please, lieutenant. The Oberst will explain.”
Fritz Number One was quick-marching through the gate.
Tommy stole a rapid glance around him. The gate creaked as it swung shut behind his back, and he had the distinctly eerie sensation that he was walking directly through a door that he’d never known existed. He wondered for a moment whether the sensation he felt at that second was the same as what the men who bailed out of their stricken planes experienced, as they tumbled free into the cold, clear air, everything they’d known before as familiar and safe abruptly cut away from them in that instant of panic, leaving only the single passionate desire to live. He decided it was.
He took a deep breath, and hurried up the wooden steps to the commandant’s office, his boots resounding off the floor like a volley of rifle shots.
On the wall directly behind the commandant’s desk was the obligatory full-color portrait of Adolf Hitler. The artist had captured the Führer with a distant, exulting look in his eyes, as if he were searching Germany’s idealized future and saw it to be perfect and prosperous. Tommy Hart thought it was a look few Germans had anymore. B-17s in the daytime and Lancasters at night in repeated waves make the future look less rosy. To the right of the portrait of Hitler was a smaller picture of a group of German officers standing beside the charred and twisted wreckage of a Russian Topolev fighter. A smiling Von Reiter was in the center of the group in the photograph.
The commandant, however, wore no smile as Tommy walked to the center of the small room. Von Reiter was seated behind his oaken desk, a telephone at his right hand, some loose papers on the blotter in front of him, next to the ubiquitous riding crop. Colonel MacNamara and Major Clark stood to his left. There was no sign of Lieutenant Scott.
Von Reiter stared across at Tommy and took a sip from a delicate china cup of steaming ersatz coffee.
“Good morning, lieutenant,” he said.
Tommy clicked his heels together and saluted. He stole a single glance at the two American officers, but they were standing aside, their posture alert, but at ease. They, too, wore stern, rigid expressions.
“Herr Oberst,” Tommy answered.
“Your superiors have some questions for you, lieutenant,” Von Reiter said. His English was accented but excellent, every bit as good as Fritz Number One’s, although the ferret could probably have passed for American with the slang he’d acquired slinking around the American compound. Tommy doubted the aristocratic Von Reiter was interested in learning the words to “Cats on the Roof.” Tommy half-turned to face the two Americans.
“Lieutenant Hart,” Colonel MacNamara began slowly. “How well do you know Captain Vincent Bedford?”
“Vic?” Tommy replied. “Well, we’re in the same hut. I’ve made trades with him. He always gets the better of the bargain. I’ve spoken with him a few times about home, and complained about the weather or the food—”
“Is he a friend of yours, lieutenant?” Major Clark abruptly demanded.
“No more, no less than anyone in the camp, sir,” Tommy answered sharply. Major Clark nodded.
“And,” Colonel MacNamara steadily continued, “how would you characterize your relationship with Lieutenant Scott?”
“I have no relationship, sir. No one does. I made an effort to be friendly, but that was it.”
MacNamara paused, then asked: “You witnessed the altercation between the two men in their bunk room?”
“No sir. I arrived after the men had been separated, only seconds before yourself and Major Clark entered the room.”
“But you heard threats made?”
“Yes sir.”
The SAO nodded. “And then, I’m told, there was a subsequent incident at the wire. . . .”
“I would not characterize it as an incident, sir. Perhaps a misunderstanding of the rules that might have had fatal results.”
“Which, I’m told, you prevented by shouting a warning.”
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“Perhaps. It happened swiftly.”
“Would you say that this incident served to increase or further exacerbate already tense feelings between the two officers?”
Tommy paused. He had no idea what the men were driving at, but told himself to keep his answers short. He could see that both Americans and the German were paying close attention to everything he said. He warned himself inwardly to be cautious.
“Sir, what’s going on?” he asked.
“Just answer the question, lieutenant.”
“There was tension between the men, sir. I believe it was racial in nature, although Captain Bedford denied that to me in one conversation. Whether it was increased or not, I wouldn’t know.”
“They hated each other, correct?”
“I could not say that.”
“Captain Bedford hates the Negro race and made no effort to hide that fact from Lieutenant Scott, is that not true?”
“Captain Bedford is outspoken, sir. On any number of topics.”
“Would you think it safe,” Colonel MacNamara asked slowly, “to say that Lieutenant Scott would likely have felt threatened by Captain Bedford?”
“It would probably be hard for him not to. But—”
Major Clark snorted an interruption. “The Negro is here for less than two weeks and already we have a fight where he takes a cheap shot at a brother officer, and higher-ranking to boot, we have probably well-founded accusations of theft, and then an alleged incident at the wire . . .” He stopped abruptly, then asked, “You’re from Vermont—correct, Hart? There are no Negro problems in Vermont that I know of, correct?”
“Yes sir. Manchester, Vermont. And we don’t have any problems that I’m aware of, sir. But we’re not currently in Manchester, Vermont.”
“That is obvious, lieutenant,” Clark said sharply, his voice rising slightly with anger.
Von Reiter, who had been sitting quietly, spoke out briskly. “I would think the lieutenant would be an appropriate choice for your task, colonel, judging from the careful way he answers your inquiries. You are a lawyer, not a soldier, lieutenant, this is true?”
“I was in my final year at Harvard Law School when I enlisted. Right after Pearl Harbor.”
“Ah.” Von Reiter smiled, but humorlessly. “Harvard. A justly famed institution for learning. I attended the University of Heidelberg, myself. I intended to become a physician, until my country summoned me.”
Colonel MacNamara coughed, clearing his voice. “Were you aware of Captain Bedford’s combat record, lieutenant?”
“No sir.”
“A Distinguished Flying Cross with oak clusters. A Purple Heart. A Silver Star for action above Germany. He did his tour of twenty-five, then volunteered for a second tour. More than thirty-two missions before being shot down—”
Von Reiter interrupted. “A most decorated and impressive flier, lieutenant. A war hero.” The commandant wore a shining black iron cross on a ribbon around his own neck, and he fingered it as he spoke. “An adversary that any fighter of the air would respect.”
“Yes sir,” Tommy said. “But I don’t understand . . .”
Colonel MacNamara took a deep breath and then spoke sullenly, in a voice of barely restrained rage.
“Captain Vincent Bedford of the United States Army Air Corps was murdered sometime after lights out last night here within the confines of Stalag Luft Thirteen.”
Tommy’s jaw dropped open slightly.
“Murdered, but how . . .”
“Murdered by Lieutenant Lincoln Scott,” MacNamara said briskly.
“I don’t believe—”
“There is ample evidence, lieutenant,” Major Clark interrupted sharply. “Enough to court-martial him today.”
“But . . .”
“Of course, we won’t do that. Not today, at least. But soon. We expect to form a military court of justice shortly to hear the charges against Lieutenant Scott. The Germans”—and here MacNamara made a small gesture toward Commandant Von Reiter—“have consented to allow us to do this. In addition, they will comply with the court’s sentence. Whatever it might be.”
Von Reiter nodded. “We request only that I be allowed to assign an officer to observe all details of the case, so that he may report the outcome to my superiors in Berlin. And, of course, should a firing squad be necessitated, we would provide the men. You Americans, surely, would be present at any execution, though—”
“A what?” Tommy blurted. “You’re joking, sir.”
No one, of course, was joking, a fact he understood instantly. He took a deep breath. His head seemed to spin dizzily, and he struggled to keep control. He detected that his voice had risen when he asked, “But what do you want from me, sir?” He directed the question to Colonel MacNamara.
“We would like you to represent the accused, lieutenant.”
“Me, sir? But I’m not—”
“You have the legal knowledge. Your bunk is filled with texts on the law, surely there’s something there about military justice. And your task is relatively simple. You need merely to make certain that Lieutenant Scott’s military and constitutional rights are protected while justice is done.”
“But, sir—”
Major Clark snapped his interruption sharply: “Look, Hart. It’s an open-and-shut case. We have evidence. We have witnesses. We have motive. We have opportunity. We have well-documented hatred. And we damn well don’t want a riot on our hands when the rest of the camp finds out that a damn nig . . .” he started, then stopped, paused, and rephrased his sentence “. . . when the camp finds out Lieutenant Scott killed an extremely popular, well-known, and highly respected, decorated, and dedicated officer. And killed him in a brutal, savage fashion. We will not have a lynching, lieutenant. Not while we are in command. The Germans want to avoid this, as well. Hence, due process. Of which you are to be an important part. Someone needs to make a show of defending Scott. And that, lieutenant, is an order. From me, from Colonel MacNamara, and from Oberst Von Reiter, as well.”
Tommy Hart inhaled deeply. “Yes sir,” he said. “I understand.”
“Good.” Major Clark nodded. “I will personally handle the prosecution of the case. I would think a week, ten days from now, we can schedule our tribunal. Best to get this over with quickly, commandant.”
Von Reiter nodded. “Yes,” the German said, “we should move with diligence. To hurry might be unseemly. But lengthy delay would create as many problems. Let us move with all due speed.”
Colonel MacNamara turned to the commandant. “I will have the names of the officers selected for the court-martial tribunal in your hands by this afternoon.”
“Excellent.”
“And,” the colonel continued, “I think we can safely conclude business by the end of the month. Early June at the latest.”
“That, too, would be acceptable. I have already summoned a man whom I will designate as the liaison officer between your proceedings and the Luftwaffe. Hauptmann Visser is en route. He will be here within the hour. . . .”
“Excuse me, colonel,” Tommy said quietly.
MacNamara pivoted in his direction. “Yes, lieutenant? What is it?”
“Well, sir,” Tommy spoke with some hesitation, “I understand the need for tying this up rapidly, but I have a few requests, sir. If that’s okay. . . .”
“What is it, Hart?” Clark spoke briskly.
“Well, I need to know precisely what this ‘evidence’ you have consists of, sir. And the names of any witnesses. I don’t mean any disrespect, major, but I also need to personally inspect the murder scene. I may also need someone to help me prepare a defense. Even for an open-and-shut case.”
“Someone to help? Whatever for?”
“Someone to share the burden. This would be traditional, sir, in any capital case.”
Clark frowned. “Perhaps back in the States. I’m not sure that’s totally necessary given our circumstances here at Stalag Luft Thirteen. Who do you have in mind, lieutenant?”
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Tommy took another deep breath. “That would be Flying Officer Hugh Renaday of the RAF. He’s in the North Compound.”
Clark instantly shook his head. “I don’t think involving the British is a good idea. This is our dirty laundry and it’s best we wash it by ourselves. Out of the question . . .”
But Von Reiter let a small grin slip across his face.
“Herr major,” the commandant said, “I think it wise that Lieutenant Hart be given every possible accommodation in the difficult and delicate task that he has been assigned. This way any impropriety will be avoided clearly. His request for assistance is not unreasonable, no? Flying Officer Renaday, lieutenant, he has some experience in matters of this sort?”
Tommy nodded. “Yes sir.”
Von Reiter nodded in return. “Then I think perhaps he is an excellent suggestion. And, Colonel MacNamara, his assistance will not mean that another of your officers will have to be compromised by this unfortunate incident and its inevitable outcome.”
Tommy thought this an interesting statement, but kept quiet.
The SAO narrowed his gaze at the German, taking his time to assess what the commandant had said. “You are correct, Herr Oberst. This makes perfectly good sense. And having a Brit involved, instead of another American—”
“He’s a Canadian, sir.”
“Canadian? All the better. Request approved, then, lieutenant.”
“The crime scene, sir. I need to—”
“Yes, of course. As soon as the body is removed. . . .”
Tommy was surprised. “The body hasn’t been removed?”
“No, Hart. The Germans will detail a squad as soon as the commandant orders it.”
“Then I want to see it. Right now. Before anything has been disturbed. Has the scene been secured?”
Von Reiter, still with the faintest of smiles on his lips, nodded. “It has not been disturbed since the unfortunate discovery of Captain Bedford’s remains, lieutenant. I can assure you of that. Other than myself, and your two superior officers, no one has examined the location. Except, perhaps, the accused.”
He continued to smile. “I must hasten to inform you, that your request is precisely the same as that made by Hauptmann Visser when I spoke with him early this morning.”
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