“What’s that?” he asked.
Scott sighed slowly, then broke into a rueful smile. “Hatred,” he said.
Tommy did not reply, and so the black flier continued after a momentary hesitation.
“Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be hated by so many men?” he asked.
Tommy shook his head.
“I didn’t think so,” Scott said, bitterness crawling over his words. He thrust back his shoulders, as if gaining a second wind. “Anyway, here is what is true and what they can prove, beyond any damn reasonable doubt: I hated Bedford and he hated me and now he’s dead. That hatred is all they need. Every witness they call, every bit of evidence—no matter how faked or false or phony, Hart—will have that hatred supporting it. And every decision being made in this ‘trial’ we’re starting on Monday, well, it has the same hatred coloring it. They all hate me, Hart. Every one of them. Oh, I suppose there are men in the camp who maybe don’t care all that much, one way or the other, and some who know that my fighter group saved their asses aloft maybe more than once, and those men are willing to tolerate me. Might even be inclined to give me the benefit of the doubt. But when you get right down to it, they’re all white and I’m black, and what that means is hatred. Why do you think it will be any different on Monday, no matter what we prove? It has never been different. Never. Not since the first slave was taken off the first slave ship in irons and put on sale in the open marketplace.”
Tommy started to speak. There was something in the grandiosity of Scott’s words that irritated the hell out of him, and he was eager to say it. But Scott held up his hand like a policeman on a street corner directing traffic, cutting him off.
“I’m not blaming you, Hart. And I don’t think you’re necessarily one of the worst, you know. And I do think you’re trying your damnedest. And I’m appreciating that. I really am. I just sometimes sit here, like this morning, and realize it ain’t going to do me any damn good at all.”
He smiled, shaking his head.
“So,” he continued, “I want you to know, Hart, that I’m not blaming you for what happens, no matter what. I just blame all that hatred. And you know what’s almost funny? You’ve got it, too. You and Renaday and Pryce. Maybe not as much as MacNamara and Clark and that sorry-ass dead man, Bedford, but you’ve got it, somewhere inside of you, probably where you can’t see it or hear it or feel it. But it’s there, the exact same hatred. And I’m thinking that when it comes right down to the end of all this, that last little bit of hatred for me and the folks like me, well, it’ll cause you to do something. Or not do something, it amounts to the same. Maybe not something terribly big, or seemingly important or crucial, but something nonetheless. Like not ask a key question. Not want to rock the boat. Who knows? But in the end, well, saving my sorry life and ass won’t quite be worth the price you’ll be asked to pay.”
Tommy must have appeared surprised, because Scott laughed again, still tossing his head back and forth.
“You just have to understand, Mr. White Harvard from Vermont. It’s inside you and there ain’t nothing you can do about it,” Scott continued, his words momentarily lapsing into a singsong yessuh-nosuh tone that mocked his situation. “. . . And when the end comes, there it will be. That ol’ devil, hatred. And so, you jes’ won’t take a step that you might have, like if I was another white man. You jes’ won’t have no part of doin’ that, no suh. . . .”
Scott exhaled slowly, and let his voice return to the educated flat Chicago tones with which Tommy was familiar. “But you understand, Hart, I’m not holding this against you. You’re doing your best, and I appreciate that. At least, you think you’re doing your best. It’s just I understand the nature of the world. We may be locked up behind barbed wire here in Stalag Luft Thirteen, but human nature doesn’t change. That’s the problem with education, you know. Shouldn’t take the boy off the farm. It opens his eyes and what he sees isn’t always what he might want to see. Like blacks and whites. And what happens? What always happens. Because there isn’t any piece of evidence in this entire world strong enough to overcome the evidence of hatred and prejudice.”
Scott gestured toward the blood-marked board beneath the bunk.
“Especially some hunk of wood,” he said.
Tommy thought for a moment about the black flier’s speech, then shrugged. “I can think of one thing,” he replied.
Scott smiled. “You can? You must be a damn sight smarter than I thought, Hart. What might that be?”
“Someone else hated Trader Vic more than you did. All we have to do is find that particular hatred. Someone hated Vic enough to kill him, even here.”
Scott leaned back on his bed, bursting into laughter. “Well, Hart,” he said, his chest expanding and his voice loud. “You’re right, I guess. But it seems to me, in this war, murdering one another’s about the easiest damn thing we do. And I’m not all that sure it all the time has a whole lot to do with hatred. More often than not, it seems to have more to do with convenience.” Scott spoke this last word with sarcastic emphasis, before continuing. “But what you say has possibilities. Even if they are unlikely ones.”
Lincoln Scott stretched again, like a tired man. Then he slowly rose to his feet and walked over to Tommy Hart. “Stick out your hand, Hart,” Scott said abruptly.
Tommy held out his arm, thinking that it was an odd moment for Lincoln Scott to want to shake hands. But this wasn’t what Scott did. Instead, he simply poised his own hand next to Tommy’s. Black and white.
“See the difference?” Scott asked. “I don’t know what we can say that’s going to make anyone in that courtroom forget it. Not for one second. Not one lousy second.”
Scott turned away, but stopped and twisted back toward Tommy. “But trying should be fun. And I’m not the type that likes to go down without a fight, you know, Hart? You learn that in the ring. You learn it in a college classroom when you’re the only Negro there and you damn well better work harder than all your white classmates if you expect not to flunk out. I learned it at Tuskegee when the white instructors washed guys out of the program—guys who could fly circles around any white pilot—for failing to salute them on the parade ground fast enough. And when on the night before we were to ship out to go to battle and die for our country, the good old boys in the local chapter of the Klan took it upon themselves to give us a proper southern send-off by burning a cross right outside the camp perimeter. Fairly well lit up the night, that did, because the white M.P.s guarding the camp didn’t think it necessary to call in the fire brigade to put out the flames, which also tells you something. You learn it in a prisoner-of-war camp, too, when nigger is the first word you hear as you march through the gate, and it doesn’t come out of some Kraut’s mouth, either. Losing may be inevitable. Hell, Hart, we all die sometime, and if this is going to be my time, well, so be it. But not without taking a swing or two. Maybe throwing a punch. You see, how you retain your dignity is by fighting hard and moving forward. That’s what my daddy the preacher used to say on Sunday mornings. No matter how little the step might be, keep moving forward. Even when you know the outcome already.”
“I don’t presume that—” Tommy started, but Scott again cut him off.
“That’s the luxury of a decidedly white attitude. My own attitude has a different color,” Scott said. This time, as he turned away from Tommy, he reached back down to the bunk for his Bible. But instead of sitting, he went over to the bunk-room window, leaning up against the wall at its side and staring out into the camp, though precisely what Scott was suddenly looking for Tommy could not tell.
There were a half-dozen kriegies waiting in the corridor outside Lincoln Scott’s solitary bunk room. They straightened up as Tommy closed the door behind him, suddenly standing together, blocking his path to the outside. Tommy stopped in his tracks, eyeing the men in front of him.
“Someone got a problem?” he asked slowly.
There was a momentary silence, then one man stepped forward.
Tommy recognized him. He had been one of Trader Vic’s roommates and his name was on the witness list that Tommy carried in his breast pocket.
“That would depend,” the kriegie answered.
“Depend on what?”
“Depend on what you’re up to, Hart.”
The man stood squarely in the center of the corridor. He folded his arms across his chest. But the others gathered in a phalanx behind him. There was little doubt about the menace in their eyes, and none in the way they stood. Tommy breathed in sharply, lowering his own hands, and clenching them into fists. He told himself to keep his wits about him.
“I’m simply doing my job,” he said slowly. “What is it you’re doing?”
The roommate was barrel-chested, shorter than Tommy, but with a thicker neck and arms. He was in need of a shave, and he’d pushed his slouched hat back on his head.
“What I’m doing is checking on you, Hart.”
Tommy stepped forward. “No one checks on me,” he said briskly. “Now, out of the fucking way.”
The group of men tightened formation, blocking his progress. The roommate stepped directly into Tommy’s path, chest pushed out, so that now the men were only inches apart.
“What was with the board, Hart? The one you ripped from Hut 103?”
“My business. Not yours.”
“You’re goddamn wrong about that,” the roommate replied. This time he punctuated his words by stabbing a finger three times in Tommy’s chest, making him step back a single stride. “What was with the board? It got something to do with that murdering bastard that killed Vic?”
“You’ll find out same time as everybody else.”
“No. I think I’ll find out now.”
The roommate stepped forward, as did the men behind him. Tommy searched their faces. He recognized most; they were men who’d played baseball with Vic, or who’d assisted him in his trades. One of the men, hanging near the back, to Tommy’s surprise, was the bandleader who’d led the jazz concert at the wire for the man who’d died in the tunnel. He hadn’t known that Vic was friends with any of the musicians, and this made him pause for a moment.
The roommate jabbed his finger into Tommy’s chest a second time, grabbing for Tommy’s attention. “I don’t hear you, Hart.”
He didn’t reply, but behind him, he suddenly heard the door to Scott’s door swinging open. He did not turn, but he was suddenly aware of another presence behind him, and he guessed, judging from the faces of the kriegies, that Scott was approaching.
The men fell into a silence, and Tommy could hear sharp breaths of air, as men waited for something to happen. After a moment, the roommate spoke. “Fuck off, Scott. We’re talking to your mouthpiece here. Not you.”
Scott was now at Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy was surprised to hear both harshness and amusement in the black flier’s response.
“Is there going to be a fight?” he asked almost lightly. “Because if there is, well, I’d like that. I’d really like that, because I know who I’m taking a piece of first.”
There was no immediate reply, and Lincoln Scott laughed.
“Yes, indeed,” Scott said. “I definitely think I’d like a real good fight. Even with bad odds, you know. I’ve been cooped up here without enough proper exercise all these weeks, and I think a fight is precisely what I need. Maybe help get some of the tension out of my system before we head to court on Monday. I could use that. I genuinely could. So what do you say, gentlemen? Who’s ready to get started?”
Again there was a momentary silence, then the roommate stepped back.
“No fight,” he said. “Not yet. Against orders.”
Scott laughed again. A low, hard, even, humorless laugh. “Too damn bad,” he said. “I was really looking forward to one.”
Tommy saw some confusion mingle with anger in the face of the roommate. What he didn’t see was fear, and he thought that the man might be thinking that he was a match for the black flier.
“You’ll get your chance,” the man said to Scott. “Unless they shoot your black ass first.”
Before Scott could answer this, Tommy suddenly pointed at the roommate. “You’re on the damn list,” he said sharply. The man pivoted toward him.
“What list?”
“Witness list.” Tommy again looked at the faces of the men in front of him. Two of the other men standing there were also among the men the prosecution was going to call. One was another roommate of the murdered captain, the other was an occupant of another bunk room in Hut 101, from down the corridor. “You, and you, too,” Tommy said briskly. “Actually, glad you’re here. You can save me some time finding you. What are you going to testify to on Monday? I want to know, and I want to know right goddamn now.”
“Screw you, Hart. We don’t have to say anything,” the man from down the hallway said. He was a lieutenant and had been in the bag for close to a year. Second seat on a B-26 Marauder that had been shot down near Trieste.
“That’s where you’re wrong, lieutenant,” Tommy said coldly, endowing the word lieutenant with the same intonation that he would have attached to an obscenity. “You are required to tell me precisely what you will testify about on Monday. If you don’t believe this, then we can go and find Colonel MacNamara and he will so inform you. Of course, I would also be obligated to inform him about this little gathering here. He might conceivably also interpret it as a violation of his direct order. I don’t know—”
“Screw you, Hart,” the man repeated, but with less conviction.
“No, screw you. Now answer the damn question. What are you going to testify to, lieutenant . . .”
“Murphy.”
“That’s right. Lieutenant Tim Murphy. I believe you come from western Massachusetts. Springfield, if I remember correctly. Not far from my home state.”
Murphy looked away angrily. “You have a good memory,” he said. “All right, Hart. I will be called to testify about the fight and the other confrontations between Scott, there, and the deceased. Threats and other menacing statements made in my presence. That’s what these other men will be speaking to, as well. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.” Tommy turned to the roommate. “That correct?”
The man nodded. A third also shrugged in agreement.
“You got a voice?” Tommy asked the third flier.
“Yeah,” the man said in an unmistakable flat, midwestern tone. “I got a voice. And I’m gonna use it on Monday to see his sorry ass get convicted.”
Lieutenant Murphy stared past Tommy, hard at Scott.
“Isn’t that right, Scott?” the man asked. The black airman remained silent, and Lieutenant Murphy snorted a mocking laugh.
“That remains to be seen,” Tommy said. “I wouldn’t bet my last pack of smokes on it.” This, of course, was false bravado, but it still felt good, tumbling from his mouth. He turned to the other men standing in the corridor. “I’d like to hear all of your voices, one by one.”
“What the hell for?” one of the men who’d been silent asked.
Tommy smiled nastily. “Funny thing about voices. Once you hear one, especially a cowardly one that threatens you in the middle of the damn night, well, you’re not likely to forget that, are you? I mean, that voice, those words, the sounds they make, why, they damn well are gonna stick right in the front of your head for a long time to come. And you sure as hell aren’t gonna forget that voice, are you? Even if there’s no clear face to assign to it, you’re still not going to forget the voice.”
He looked at the remaining men, including the bandleader.
“You have a voice?” Tommy demanded.
“No,” the bandleader replied. Then he and two of the other men abruptly turned and rapidly marched away down the corridor. None of them were big men, but they still walked with distinct size and anger. And if they had an inadvertent y’all or Yankee in their language, as did the two men who’d paid him the threatening visit in the middle of the night several days past, they had not shared it with Tomm
y.
Trader Vic’s roommate looked over at Scott. “You’ll get your fight someday,” he said. “I can promise that . . .”
Tommy could sense Scott coiling beside him.
“. . . nigger,” the man concluded.
Tommy stepped forward, blocking the path of the explosion he believed was coming from Scott. He pushed his face up against the roommate’s, so that they were almost nose to nose.
“There’s an old saying.” Tommy spoke quietly, almost whispering. “It goes something like this: ‘God punishes those whose prayers He answers.’You might think about that.”
The roommate narrowed his eyes for just an instant. Then, instead of answering, he grinned, stepped back a single stride, spit sharply at the wooden floor, right at Tommy’s boots, and then executed a precise, military about-face and marched away down the corridor, followed by the remaining men.
Tommy watched until the door to the assembly yard opened and clattered shut as they slammed it behind them.
Scott exhaled slowly. “I think we will fight,” he said. “Before they shoot me.”
He paused, then added. “The rest? Well, Hart, that was what I was talking about. Hatred. Ain’t nice in person, is it?”
Scott didn’t wait for a reply, but disappeared back into his room, leaving Tommy alone in the corridor. Tommy leaned up against the wall, catching his breath. He felt an odd exhilaration, and was curiously flooded with a long-forgotten memory of a time right before he and his bomber group had headed overseas. They’d been flying in formation over the coast of New Jersey, on a spring day not unlike this one, steadily making their way northeast toward Boston’s Hanscom Field and their jump-off place to cross the Atlantic.
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