Hart's War

by John Katzenbach

  Sullivan took a deep breath, which did nothing to change his own slight and sallow appearance. “I am sorry for your wound, Hauptmann,” he said, his voice taking on even thicker inflections and accents from his native country. “But I think that you are among the truly fortunate. None of the men piloting 109s that I shot down ever managed to bail out. They are all up in Valhalla, or wherever it is that you Nazis think you go when you pull a cropper for the fatherland.”

  The words from the Irishman were like blows in the small room. The German straightened his shoulders as he stared at the young artist with unbridled anger. But his voice did not betray the rage that the Hauptmann must have felt, for his words remained even, icy, and flat.

  “This is perhaps true, Mr. Sullivan.” Visser spoke slowly. “But still, you are here in Stalag Luft Thirteen. And no one knows for certain whether you will ever see the streets of Belfast again, do they?”

  Sullivan did not answer. The two men eyed each other hard, without compromise, and then Visser turned back to the drawing and said, “And there is another detail that you have gotten wrong in the drawing, Mr. Sullivan. . . .”

  The German pivoted slightly, looking at Tommy Hart.

  “The bootprint. It was facing the other direction.”

  Visser took his finger and pointed down at the sketch. “It was heading in this direction.”

  He motioned toward the back of the Abort to where the body was discovered.

  “This,” Visser continued, coldly, “I think you will find, is an important fact.”

  Again, none of the Allied fliers spoke. And in this second silence, Visser turned again, so that now he was facing Phillip Pryce.

  “But you, Wing Commander Pryce, you will already have seen this, and you will, I have no doubt whatsoever, understand its true significance.”

  Pryce simply stared at the German, who smiled nastily, handed the sketches back to Tommy Hart, and reached down to his leather portfolio. With some dexterity, using his only hand, he managed to extract a small, tan, dossier folder from within the portfolio.

  “It took me no small amount of time to obtain this, wing commander. But when I did finally acquire it, ah, the intrigue that it held. Quite interesting reading.”

  The other men in the room remained quiet. Tommy thought Pryce’s breath was filled with the wheeziness of tension.

  Heinrich Visser looked down at the dossier. His smile faded, as he read:

  “Phillip Pryce. Wing Commander, 56th Heavy Bomber Group, stationed in Avon-on-Trent. Commissioned in the RAF, 1939. Born, London, September 1893. Educated at Harrow and Oxford. Graduated in the top five in his class at both institutions. Served as an air adjutant to the general staff during the first war. Returned home, decorated. Admitted to the bar, July 1921. Primary partner in the London firm of Pryce, Stokes, Martyn and Masters. At least a dozen murder trials argued, all of the most sensational, with great headlines and all due attention, without a single loss . . .”

  Heinrich Visser stopped, looked up, fixing the older man.

  “Not a single loss,” the German repeated. “An exemplary record, wing commander. Outstanding record. Quite remarkable. And probably quite remunerative, as well, no? And at your age, it would have seemed that you had no need of enlisting, but you could have remained throughout the war enjoying the comforts of your position and resting amid your quite noteworthy successes.”

  “How did you obtain that information?” Pryce demanded sharply.

  Visser shook his head.

  “You do not truly expect me to answer that particular question, do you, wing commander?”

  Pryce took a deep breath, which caused him to cough harshly, and shook his head.

  “Of course not, Hauptmann.”

  The German closed the dossier, returned it to his portfolio, and glanced across at each of the men, in their turn.

  “Not a single loss in a capital case. Quite a phenomenal accomplishment, even for a barrister as prominent as yourself. And this case, where you have been so ably, yet so discreetly, assisting young Lieutenant Hart? You do not predict that it might become your very first failure?”

  “No,” Pryce said abruptly.

  “Your confidence in your American friend is admirable,” Visser said. “I do not know that it is widely shared beyond these walls.” Visser smiled. “Although, after this morning’s performance, perhaps there are some who are reevaluating their opinions.”

  Visser worked the portfolio up beneath his remaining arm.

  “Your cough, wing commander. It seems quite severe. I think you should see to its treatment before it worsens further,” the German said briskly. Then, with a single, farewell nod, he turned sharply on his heel and strode from the room, the metal tips of his boots making a machine-gun–like sound against the worn wooden boards.

  The four Allied fliers remained silent for a moment, until Pryce broke the quiet: “The uniform is Luftwaffe,” he said thinly, “but the man is Gestapo.”

  It was later in the day when Tommy hurried across to the South Compound, heading toward the medical services tent to interview the Cleveland mortuary assistant. He was troubled by Visser’s appearance. On the one hand, the German seemed to be trying to help—as evidenced by his pointing out the flaws in the crime scene sketches. But then there was so much unmistakable threat in everything he said. Pryce, in particular, had been unsettled by the Hauptmann’s unstated intentions.

  As he paced quickly through the darkening shadows that littered the alleys between the housing huts, Tommy Hart found himself thinking about the game of mouse roulette he’d seen earlier. He decided that he would no longer feel anything but sympathy for the mouse.

  There were a couple of airmen standing outside the medical services hut, smoking. They parted as he approached, and one of the fliers said, “Hey, Hart, how’s it going?” as he passed.

  He found Lieutenant Nicholas Fenelli inside one of the small examination rooms. There was a small table, a few hard-backed chairs, and a tabletop covered with a rough white sheet. Light from a single overhead electric bulb filled the room. On a pair of wooden shelves that had been nailed to one wall there was an array of medicines—sulfa drugs, aspirin, disinfectants—and creams, bandages, and compresses. The selection was modest; all the kriegies knew that getting sick or injured was dangerous in Stalag Luft Thirteen. A routine illness could easily become complicated by the lack of proper medical materials, despite the efforts of the Red Cross to keep the dispensary stocked. The Allied prisoners believed that the Germans regularly pilfered the precious medicines for their own hard-pressed hospitals, but this was denied by the Luftwaffe commanders, who scoffed at the allegations. The more they scoffed, the more the kriegies were convinced they were being robbed.

  Fenelli looked up from behind the table as Tommy entered.

  “The man of the hour,” he said, extending his hand. “Hell, that was some show you put on this morning. You got an encore planned for Monday?”

  “I’m working on it,” Tommy replied. He glanced around. “You know, I’ve never been in here before. . . .”

  “You’re lucky, Hart,” Fenelli said brusquely. “I know it ain’t much. Hell, best I can do is lance a boil, maybe clean out some blisters, or set a broken wrist. Other than that, well, you got trouble.” Fenelli leaned back, glanced out the window, and lit a cigarette. He gestured at the medicines. “Don’t get sick, Hart. At least not until you think Ike or Patton and a column of tanks is just down the road.” Fenelli was short, but wide-shouldered, with long, powerful arms. His curly black hair hung over his ears, and he was in need of a shave. He had an open grin, and a cocky, self-assured manner.

  “I’m not planning on it,” Tommy said. “So, you’re going to be a doctor?”

  “That’s right. Back to med school as soon as I get my sorry butt outta here. Shouldn’t have too much trouble with gross anatomy class after all the stuff I’ve seen since I got my greetings from Uncle Sam. I figure I’ve seen just about every body part from toes
to guts to brains all laid out nice and special thanks to the fucking Krauts.”

  “You worked in the mortuary back home. . . .”

  “I told all that stuff to your buddy, Renaday. All true. And not nearly as bad a place to work as folks’ll think. One thing you can always count on: Working in a mortuary is a nice, steady job. Never a shortage of stiffs heading your way. Anyway, as I told your Canadian buddy—shit, I wouldn’t want to get in a fight with him, you see the shoulders on him? Anyway, I told him, soon as I saw that knife wound in Trader Vic’s neck, I knew what the hell had happened. Didn’t have to look at it for more than one second, although I did. Took a nice long look. I seen it before and I know how it got put there, and I haven’t got no trouble telling anyone who’s interested.”

  Tommy handed Fenelli the sketch of the neck wound that Colin Sullivan had made. The American swiftly nodded.

  “Hey, Hart. This fella can draw, all right. Yeah. That’s exactly what it looked like. Even the edges, man, he’s got them just right. Not sliced, like you’d think, but just frayed a bit where the knife went in, bang! and then got worked around. . . .”

  As he spoke, Fenelli mimicked the blade entering the throat. Tommy took a deep breath, imagining the last second of panic that Trader Vic must have felt as he was grasped from behind.

  “So, if I call you to the stand . . .”

  As he spoke, Fenelli handed Tommy back the sketch of the neck wound.

  “Sure. No problem. Maybe piss off Clark a bit. But that man’s in genuine need of pissing off. Tight-ass career army type. Screw him.”

  Fenelli laughed out loud.

  “Hey,” he said, grinning, “you gonna spring this on Monday? Not bad, Hart. Not bad at all. That old fart Clark don’t have nothing going for him like this.”

  “Not Monday,” Tommy replied. “But soon enough. Think you can keep your opinions to yourself?” he asked. “No matter what happens when Clark starts to trot out his witnesses and evidence . . .”

  “You mean you want me not to go around shooting my mouth off and telling everybody that Vic bought it just like some low-level capo did on some real dark street corner back home? Sure. You may not learn a lot working in a funeral home in Cleveland, but you do learn how to keep your mouth shut.”

  Tommy reached out and shook Fenelli’s hand. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Just don’t go anywhere.”

  The would-be doctor laughed hard. “You’re a card, Hart.”

  Tommy was about to exit the door to the dispensary when Fenelli said, “Hey, Hart, one thing. You know this guy that’s sitting next to Clark?”

  “Townsend, I think his name is?”

  “That’s the guy. You know anything about him?”

  “No. I was going to head over to his hut now.”

  “I know him,” Fenelli said. “We came into this shithole same time, same transport. He was a Liberator pilot, shot down over Italy.”

  “Did he have a story?”

  Fenelli grinned. “Hey, Hart, everybody’s got a story, don’t you know? But that ain’t what I think you’re gonna find interesting about Captain Walker Townsend, no sir.” Fenelli mimicked a slight southern accent as he spoke. “You know what Captain Townsend was back in the States before landing his ass over here?”

  Tommy did not say anything. Fenelli continued to smile.

  “How about chief assistant district attorney in Richmond, Virginia? That’s what he was, and you can bet every damn carton of smokes you’ve got that’s the reason Clark has him sitting in the next seat.”

  Tommy breathed out slowly. This made sense to him.

  “And one other cute little detail, Hart, which I remember from the two days Townsend and I spent in the same stinking cattle car while we was being shipped here. Man tells me he did all the murder prosecutions in Richmond. And the man likes to tell me that hell, he’s got more men on death row in ole Virginny than he did bombing missions before he got shot down. Like that was some sort of funny kinda ironic thing and all.”

  Fenelli reached into his shirt pocket, removing another cigarette, which he lit, blowing rings of smoke into the air.

  “Just thought you might like to know who you’re really up against, Hart. And it for sure ain’t that hot-headed idiot Major Clark. Good luck.”

  Tommy found Captain Walker Townsend in his bunk room in Hut 113 working on a crossword puzzle contained in a dog-eared paperback booklet filled with various games. The captain had nearly completed the puzzle, writing each entry in faint pencil strokes, so that it could be erased upon completion and traded for a can of processed meat or a chocolate bar to some other bored kriegie.

  Townsend looked up as Tommy entered the room, smiled, and immediately asked: “Hey, lieutenant. What’s a six-letter word for failure?”

  “How about fucked?” Tommy responded.

  Townsend roared with laughter, a voice much greater than his slight build would seem to have accommodated. “Not bad, Hart,” he said. His accent was definitely southern, but only in the mildest way. It lacked the Deep South contractions and distinctions that marked Vincent Bedford’s speech as well as many others’. His was almost gentle, rhythmic, closer to a lullaby’s tones. “Y’all are sharp. But somehow, I don’t think that’s what the editors of the New York Times had in mind when they put this together. . . .”

  “Then how about defeat?” Tommy suggested.

  Townsend looked down at the puzzle for an instant, then smiled. “That works,” he said. He put his pencil and the paperback down on the bunk. “Damn, I hate those things. Always make me feel dumb. You just got to have one of those minds that works the right way, I guess. Anyways, when I get back home, I won’t never do another.”

  “Where’s home?” Tommy asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Why, the great state of Virginia. The capital city of Richmond.”

  “What did you do before the war?” Tommy asked.

  Townsend shrugged, still smiling. “Why, a little bit of this and a little bit of that. And then I got my law degree and went to work for the state. Good work, working for the state. Steady hours and a nice paycheck at the end of the week and a pension waiting down the road some time.”

  “State attorney? What’s that? Land acquisitions and zoning regulations?”

  “More or less,” Townsend replied, still smiling. “Of course, I didn’t have the same advantages as you. No sir. No Harvard University for me, I’m afraid. Just night classes at the local college. Worked all day in my daddy’s store—he sold farm equipment just outside the city. Went to school at night.”

  Tommy nodded. He wore a smile of his own, one that he hoped would make Townsend believe that he’d swallowed the lies without chewing.

  “Harvard’s overrated,” he said. “I think you learn as much about the law in a lot of less fancy places. Most of my classmates were only interested in getting their degrees and getting out and making a fast buck, anyway.”

  “Well,” Townsend said, lifting his shoulders, “still seems to me to be a mighty fine place to be studying the law.”

  “Well,” Tommy said, “at least you’re a graduate. So you’ve got more practical experience than I do.”

  Townsend held his hands out in a what-do-you-know gesture. “Probably not all that much more, what with your moot courts and such up there in Boston. And hell, Hart, this military tribunal ain’t much like what we got back home in all those county courthouses.”

  No, Tommy thought. I bet it isn’t, but the outcome is designed to be the same. He did not say this out loud. Instead, he said, “Well, you’ve got a list of witnesses for me. And I’d like to inspect the evidence. . . .”

  “Why, I’ve been waiting for you all day, since this morning’s hearing—fine job you did on that, too, I must admit. Why, Lieutenant Scott, he seemed filled to the very brim with the righteous indignation of the truly innocent. Yes sir. He did. Why, I must say that all I’ve heard from the other kriegies all this long day has been doubt and questions and wonderment
, which is, I’d wager, more or less what y’all had in mind. But, of course, they haven’t seen the evidence in this matter, as I have. Evidence doesn’t lie. Evidence doesn’t make nice speeches. All it does is point the finger of guilt. Still, my hat’s off to you, Lieutenant Hart. You had a fine start.”

  “Call me Tommy. Everybody else does. Except for Major Clark and Colonel MacNamara.”

  “Well then, Tommy, I must congratulate you on this first day.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But as you’d expect, I’ll be doing my best to make it a mite harder from here on in.”

  “That’s exactly what I’d expect. Starting Monday morning.”

  “Right. Monday morning, zero eight hundred, like y’all said. Just so’s we understand, there’s nothing personal. Just following orders.”

  Tommy breathed in sharply. He’d heard that phrase before. As he exhaled, he thought to himself that the one thing he was absolutely sure of was that before the end of Lincoln Scott’s trial, things were going to get very personal. Especially toward Captain Walker Townsend, who seemed to have so little trouble lying to him.

  “Of course. I understand perfectly,” he replied. “Now, the list? The evidence?”

  “Why, I have those items for you here, right now,” Townsend said. He reached beneath his bunk and removed a small wooden locker made from balsa wood. He removed a leather flight jacket, a pair of sheepskin-lined flying boots, and the homemade knife. The two strips of cloth, one from the frying pan handle and the other from the knife, were wrapped up. Townsend also removed these and spread them out on the bunk.

  Tommy looked at those first. The Virginian sat back in his seat, saying nothing, watching Tommy’s face for reactions. Tommy was reminded of the players in the game of mouse roulette right at the moment the croupier released the frightened mouse. The players remained still, expressionless, mentally urging the terrified animal in their direction. Tommy adopted much the same visage.

  There was no doubt in his mind that the two cloth strips were the same, and that the one from the blade seemed to have small but noticeable flecks of blood on one edge. He noted this, then set the cloth back down. He picked up the knife and carefully measured its dimensions. It was constructed from a flattened piece of iron, almost two inches wide and nearly fourteen inches long. Its point was triangulated, but only one edge had been sharpened into a razor.