Hart's War

by John Katzenbach

  Tommy let out a long, slow draft of breath.

  He searched the landscape of murder in front of him.

  And then he saw what was wrong.

  “Hugh,” he said very quietly, “I think I see a problem.”

  Renaday quickly looked up from his sketch pad. “Me, too,” he replied. “Clearly . . .” But he did not finish his statement.

  Both men heard a noise from outside the Abort. There were German voices raised, sharp-edged and insistent. Tommy reached across and seized the Canadian by the arm.

  “Not a word,” he said. “Not until we can talk later.”

  “Bloody right. You got it,” replied Renaday.

  The two men then turned and walked from the latrine, stepping out into the chilled misty air, feeling the closeness of the smell and of what they’d seen drop away from them like so many droplets of moisture. Fritz Number One was standing by the front door, strapped in strict attention. In his hand at his side was a camera with a flash attachment.

  A foot or two away, a German officer stood.

  He was of modest height and build and seemed slightly older than Tommy, perhaps closing on thirty, although it was difficult to tell for certain because war aged men differently. His close-cropped thick hair was jet black, but tinged with premature gray around the temples, the same color as the leather trenchcoat he wore above a sharply pressed but slightly ill-fitted Luftwaffe uniform. He had very pale skin, and on one cheek he sported a jagged red scar just beneath the left eye. He wore a thin, well-groomed beard, which surprised Tommy. He knew that naval officers in the German military often wore beards, but he’d never seen a flier with one, even a sparse one such as this officer maintained. He had eyes that seemed knifelike, slicing their gaze forward.

  The officer turned slowly toward the two kriegies, and Tommy saw that he was also missing his left arm.

  The German paused, then asked: “Lieutenant Hart? Flying Officer Renaday?”

  Both men came to attention. The German returned their salutes.

  “I am Hauptmann Heinrich Visser,” he said. His English was smooth, accented only slightly, but tinged with a slight hissing sound. He looked at Renaday sharply.

  “Did you fly a Spitfire, flying officer?” he asked abruptly.

  Hugh shook his head.

  “Blenheim,” he replied. “Second seat.”

  Visser nodded. “Good,” he muttered.

  “Does it make a difference?” Renaday demanded.

  The German slid a small cruel smile across his face. When he did this, the scar seemed to change color slightly. And the smile was crooked. He made a small gesture with his right hand toward his missing arm.

  “A Spitfire took this,” he said. “He managed to come around behind me after I killed his wing man.” He kept his voice even and controlled. “Forgive me,” he added, still pacing each word carefully. “We are all imprisoned by our misfortunes, are we not?”

  Tommy thought this a philosophical question better suited for a dinner table and a fine bottle of wine, or a rich liqueur, than standing outside a latrine and in the gory presence of a murdered body. He did not say this out loud. Instead, he asked:

  “You are, I believe, Hauptmann, to be some sort of a liaison? Exactly what duties does this include?”

  Hauptmann Visser relaxed, shuffling his feet momentarily in the muddy earth. He did not sport the riding boots that the commandant and his assistants preferred. Instead, he wore more utilitarian, but highly polished, black boots. “I am to witness all aspects of the situation, then make a report back to my superiors. We are bound by the Geneva Convention to account for the well-being of every Allied prisoner of war in our possession. But here, now, I am merely in charge of having the remains removed. Then perhaps it will be possible for us to, how do you say? Compare our findings? At a later juncture.”

  Hauptmann Visser turned toward Fritz Number One.

  “This soldier was providing you with a camera?”

  Hugh stepped forward. “It is customary in a murder investigation to take photographs of the body and of the crime scene location. That is why we demanded Fritz obtain the camera for us.”

  Visser nodded. “Yes, this is true. . . .”

  He smiled. Tommy’s first impression was that the Hauptmann seemed a dangerous man. His tone of voice seemed gentle and accommodating, but his eyes told a different tale.

  “But only in a routine situation. This situation, alas, is decidedly not routine. Photographs could be smuggled out of the camp. Used for propaganda purposes. I cannot permit this.”

  He reached out his hand for the camera.

  Tommy thought Fritz Number One was ready to pass out. His chest was drawn up, his spine rigid, his face pale. If he had dared to even take a breath of air in the Hauptmann’s presence, Tommy Hart had been unaware. The ferret immediately thrust the camera forward to the officer.

  “I did not think, Herr Hauptmann,” Fritz Number One started. “I was told to assist the officers . . .”

  Visser cut him off with a laconic wave.

  “Of course, corporal. You would not see the danger in the same way that I might.”

  He turned back to the two Allied airmen. “That, precisely, is why I’m here.”

  Visser coughed, a dry, gentle sound. He turned, gesturing to one of the armed soldiers still ringing the Abort. He handed this man the camera. “See that it is returned to its owner,” he said. The guard saluted, draped the camera’s strap over his shoulder, and returned to his sentry position. Then Visser removed a package of cigarettes from his breast pocket. With surprising dexterity, he extricated one from the pack, returned the remainder to his pocket, and produced a steel lighter, which immediately flickered with flame.

  He took a long drag on the cigarette, then looked up, one eyebrow slightly raised: “You have completed your inspection?”

  Tommy nodded.

  “Good,” the German said. “Then the corporal will accompany you to see your . . .” he hesitated, then, still smiling, said, “your charge. I will complete matters here.”

  Tommy Hart thought for a second, then whispered to the Canadian: “Hugh, stay here. Keep as close a watch on the Hauptmann as you can. And find out what he does with Bedford’s body.”

  He looked over at the German. “I think it would be critical to have a physician examine Captain Bedford’s remains. So that at least we can be certain of the medical aspects of this case.”

  “Damn right,” Hugh said in an almost whisper. “No photos. No doctor. That’s bloody-all fucked.”

  Hauptmann Visser shrugged, not acknowledging the Canadian’s obscenity, though he surely heard it. “I do not think this would be practical, given the difficulties of our current situation. Still, I will examine the body carefully myself, and if I think your request is warranted, I will send for a German physician.”

  “An American would be better. Except we don’t have one.”

  “Doctors make poor bombardiers.”

  “Tell me, Hauptmann, do you have knowledge in criminal investigations? Are you a policeman, Hauptmann? What do you call it? Kriminalpolizei?” Tommy threw the questions across the dirt ground.

  Visser coughed again. He raised his face, still smiling crookedly.

  “I look forward to our next meeting, lieutenant. Perhaps we will be able to speak at greater length at that point. Now, if you will excuse me, there appears much to do and not much time to accomplish it.”

  “Very good, Herr Hauptmann,” Tommy Hart said briskly. “But I have ordered Flying Officer Renaday to remain behind and personally witness your removal of Captain Bedford’s remains.”

  Visser’s eyes darted at Tommy Hart. But his face wore the same accommodating smile. He hesitated, then said:

  “As you wish, lieutenant.”

  With that, the German stepped up, passed Tommy, and headed into the Abort. Renaday hurried after him. Fritz Number One waved wildly, now that the officer was out of sight, for Tommy to follow him, and the two men set off acro
ss the camp again. The milling knots of kriegies still gathered on the parade ground let them pass. Behind him, Tommy Hart could hear the men murmur with questions and speculation, and perhaps the first few tones of anger.

  There was a single guard clutching a Schmeisser machine pistol standing outside the door to cooler cell number six. Tommy thought the man young, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. And although he stood at attention, the guard seemed nervous, almost scared to be in such close proximity to the kriegies. This was not all that uncommon, Tommy thought. Some of the newer and younger, less experienced guards arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen so propagandized about the Terrorfliegers—terror-fliers, according to the constant harangue of Nazi broadcasters—in the Allied armies that they believed the kriegies all to be bloodthirsty savages and cannibals. Of course, Tommy knew that the Allied air war was admittedly one that was predicated upon the twin concepts of savagery and terror. Night and day incendiary raids on the populated centers of the cities could hardly be considered something different. So he guessed that the unsettling thought of coming into close contact with a black Terrorflieger kept the teenager’s finger dancing around the trigger of the Schmeisser.

  The young guard wordlessly stepped aside, pausing only to unbolt the door, and Tommy stepped past him into the cell.

  The walls and floor were a dull gray concrete. There was a single overhead bare lightbulb and a solitary window up in the corner of the six by nine room. It was dank, and seemed a good ten degrees colder inside the cell than outdoors, even on the overcast, rainy day.

  Lincoln Scott had been sitting in a corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, across from the sole piece of furniture in the cell, a crusted metal pail for waste. He stood up rapidly as Tommy entered the room, not exactly coming to attention, but certainly close to it, rigid and stiff.

  “Hello, lieutenant,” Tommy said briskly, almost officiously. “I tried to introduce myself to you the other day. . . .”

  “I know who you are. What the hell is going on?” Lincoln Scott demanded sharply. His feet were bare and he wore only pants and blouse. There was no sign in the cell of either his sheepskin flight jacket or boots, and he must have had to fight to prevent himself from shivering.

  Tommy hesitated.

  “Haven’t you been told—”

  Scott interrupted. “I haven’t been told a damn thing! I’m pulled out of formation and hustled into the commandant’s office sometime this morning. Major Clark and Colonel MacNamara demand I hand over my jacket and boots. Then they question me for a half-hour about how much I hate that cracker bastard Bedford. After that, they asked me a couple of questions about last night, and then the next thing I know, I’m being escorted into this delightful place by a couple of Kraut goons. You’re the first American I’ve seen since this morning’s session with the colonel and the major. So, Lieutenant Hart, please tell me what in the hell is going on!”

  Scott’s voice was a mingling of restrained fury and confusion. Tommy was taken aback.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said slowly. “You haven’t been informed by the major. . . .”

  “I told you, Hart. I haven’t been told a thing about anything! And what the hell am I doing in here? Under guard—”

  “Vincent Bedford was murdered last night.”

  Scott’s mouth opened and his eyes widened for an instant, before narrowing and fixing Tommy Hart with an unwavering gaze.

  “Murdered? Here?”

  “Major Clark informs me that you will be charged with this crime.”

  “Me?”

  “Correct.”

  Scott leaned back against the cement wall, almost as if he’d been struck by a steady, surprise blow. The black flier took a deep breath, steadied himself, and once again stood ramrod straight.

  “I’ve been assigned to help you prepare a defense to the charge.” Tommy hesitated, then added, “And I must warn you that they consider this to be a capital offense.”

  Lincoln Scott nodded slowly before he replied. His shoulders were thrust back. His eyes fixed on Tommy Hart. He spoke slowly, deliberately, his voice slightly raised, as if he could weight each word with a passion that reached beyond the cement walls of the cooler cell, avoided the guard and his automatic weapon, and traveled past the rows of huts, over the wire, beyond the woods, and all the way across Europe to freedom.

  “Mr. Hart . . .” he said, each word echoing in the small room, “if you believe nothing else, believe this: I did not kill Vincent Bedford. I may have wanted to. But I did not.”

  Lincoln Scott took another deep breath.

  “I am innocent,” he said.

  Chapter Four

  ENOUGH EVIDENCE

  Tommy was momentarily taken aback by the forcefulness of Lincoln Scott’s denial. He realized he must have looked astonished because the black flier immediately burst out:

  “What’s the matter, Hart?”

  Tommy shook his head.

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar,” Scott snorted. “What was it that you expected me to say, lieutenant? That I killed the racist bastard?”

  “No . . .”

  “Then what?”

  Tommy took a slow breath, organizing his thoughts. “I didn’t know what you would say, Lieutenant Scott. I hadn’t really considered the overall question of your guilt or innocence yet. Only that you are about to be charged with a crime.”

  Scott exhaled sharply, and took a few steps around the tiny cooler cell, shrugging his shoulders against the damp cold. “Can they do that?” he demanded suddenly.

  “Do what?”

  “Charge me with a crime. Here . . .” He swung his arm around as if encompassing the entirety of the prisoner-of-war camp.

  “Yes, I believe so. We are technically still under the command of our own officers and members of the army and therefore subject to military discipline. I suppose, technically, you would argue that we are in a combat situation, and consequently controlled by the special regulations that imply. . . .”

  Scott shook his head.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” he said briskly. “Unless you’re black. And then it makes perfectly reasonable sense. Goddamn it! What the hell did I ever do to them? What conceivable evidence could they have?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that Major Clark said there was ample evidence to convict you.”

  Scott snorted again. “Crap,” he said. “How can there be any evidence when I had nothing to do with the cracker s.o.b.’s death? And how did it happen, anyway?”

  Tommy started to answer, then stopped himself.

  “Why don’t we talk about you first,” he said slowly. “Why don’t you tell me what happened last night.”

  Scott pushed his back up against the gray cement cooler wall, staring up toward the tiny window for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he blew out slowly, turned his gaze on Tommy, and shrugged.

  “There’s not much to tell,” he said. “After the afternoon count, I walked a bit. Then I ate alone. I read in my bunk until the Krauts turned off the lights. I rolled over and went to sleep. I woke up once in the middle of the night. Needed to take a leak, so I got up, lit a candle, and went down to the toilet. I did my business, returned to the bunk room, climbed back into the sack, and didn’t wake up until the Germans started whistling and shouting. Next thing I knew, I was in here. Like I told you.”

  Tommy tried to imprint every word on his memory. He wished he’d at least brought a notepad and pencil with him, and cursed himself for his forgetfulness. He promised himself he would not make that mistake again.

  “Did anyone see you? When you awoke?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Well, was anyone else in the toilet?”

  “No.”

  “What were you doing there, that late?”

  “I told you . . .”

  “Nobody wakes up and starts walking around in the middle of the night, not here, not now, unless they’re sick or they can’t sleep because they�
�re afraid of having nightmares. Maybe back at home you might, but not here. So, which was it?”

  Scott smiled briefly, but not at something he found amusing.

  “Not exactly a nightmare,” he replied. “Unless you consider my situation a nightmare, which, of course, is a distinct possibility. More an accommodation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Hart,” Scott began slowly, making each word clear and distinct. “We aren’t supposed to be outside after dark. Verboten, right? Krauts might use you for target practice. Of course, guys still do it. Sneak out, dodge the ferrets and the searchlights, slip into the other huts. The tunnel guys and the escape committee, they like to work at night. Clandestine, hush-hush meetings and secret work crews. But no one’s supposed to know who they are and where they’re working. Well, in a way, I’m sort of a highly specialized tunnel rat, myself.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Of course you don’t get it. I wouldn’t expect you to,” Scott said with barely restrained anger. Then he continued, speaking slowly, as if explaining something to a recalcitrant child. “White guys don’t like sharing a toilet with a black man. Not everybody, of course. But enough. And those that don’t like it, well, they take this very personally. For example, Captain Vincent Bedford. He took it extremely personally.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said to find another place. Of course, there isn’t another place, but that small detail didn’t seem to bother him much.”

  “How did you reply?”

  Lincoln Scott laughed sharply.

  “I didn’t. Other than to tell him to go screw himself.” Scott took a deep breath, watching Tommy’s face. “Maybe this comes as a surprise to you, Hart? Have you ever been down South? They like things separate down there. White toilets and colored toilets. Anyway, if I go outside, try to use the Abort, I could get shot by some trigger-happy Kraut. So, what do I do? Wait until everyone’s asleep, especially that redneck bastard, and I can’t hear anybody moving in the corridor, and that’s when I go. Quiet as can be. A secret piss, I suppose. At least a piss that doesn’t draw too much attention. A piss that avoids all the Vincent Bedfords in this camp. That’s why I was up in the middle of the night and sneaking around.”