“Yes, it is.”
The German grinned. Pryce coughed twice, holding his hand over his mouth. Visser pivoted toward the old man, as if drawn to the sound.
“Your health, wing commander, it improves?”
“Not bloody likely in this rathole,” Hugh muttered ferociously.
Pryce shot a quick glance at his blustering Canadian companion, then replied, “My health is fine, Hauptmann. My cough lingers, as you can readily see. But my strength is fine, and I eagerly look forward to the remaining time I have here, before my countrymen arrive one fine day at the front gates and then proceed to shoot the bloody lot of you.”
Visser laughed as if what Pryce had said was somehow a joke. “Spoken like a warrior,” he said, continuing to grin. “But I fear, wing commander, that your bravery masks your illness. Your stoicism in the face of such sickness is admirable.”
He stared at Pryce, the smile fading into a chilling, deep look that spoke of great hatred whirling around within him, not so much hidden as encapsulated.
“Yes,” Visser continued slowly, nastily, “I fear you are more sick than you are willing to let on to your comrades. Far more sick.”
“I’m fine,” Pryce repeated.
Visser shook his head. “I think not, wing commander. I think not. Regardless, allow me to introduce my companion to you: This gentleman is Herr Blucher of the Swiss Red Cross. . . .”
Visser turned to the diminutive man, who nodded toward the prisoners and clicked his heels together, simultaneously making a small bow.
“Herr Blucher . . .” Visser continued, smugness creeping into his voice, “has arrived this very day directly from Berlin, where he is a member of the Swiss legation there.”
“What the bloody hell . . .” Pryce started, but then he stopped, fixing the German with a cold look of his own.
“It is against the interests of the Luftwaffe High Command to have a distinguished and justly famed barrister such as yourself perish here amid the rough and deprived life of prisoners of war. We are concerned with your persistent illnesses, wing commander, and alas, because we lack the proper medical facilities for treatment, it has been decided by the highest authorities that you are to be repatriated. Good news, Mr. Pryce. You are going home.”
The word home seemed to echo in sudden silence.
Pryce stood stock-still in the center of the small room. He drew himself to attention, trying to gather some military bearing. “I don’t believe you,” he said abruptly.
Visser shook his head. “Ah, but it is true. At this very instant at a camp in Scotland, a captured German naval officer suffering from similar maladies is being informed by the Swiss representative there that he is to be returned to his homeland. It is the simplest of trades, wing commander. Our sick prisoner for their sick prisoner.”
“I don’t believe you,” Pryce repeated.
The man identified as Herr Blucher took a single step forward. He spoke in fractured, Germanicized English: “Is true, Mr. Pryce. I will be escorting you by train to Switzerland. . . .”
Pryce turned sharply, staring at Herr Blucher. “You’re no bloody Swiss,” he said, spitting. Then he swung about and fixed Visser with a harrowing glance. “Lies!” he said instantly. “Bloody lies, Visser! There’s no trade! There’s no exchange!”
“Ah,” Visser replied, sickeningly sweetly, “but I assure you, wing commander, this is so. Even as we speak. A naval officer who will be allowed to return to the loving arms of his wife and children—”
“Lies! Black lies!” Pryce interrupted, shouting.
“But Mr. Pryce, you are mistaken,” Visser said unctuously. “I thought you would be pleased at the thought of returning home.”
“You lying dog!” Pryce cried. He turned to Tommy Hart and Hugh Renaday, his face a portrait of instant and complete despair.
“Phillip!” Tommy blurted out.
Pryce took an unsteady step toward Tommy, reaching out and seizing the younger man by the sleeve of his jacket, as if he was suddenly weakened.
“They mean to kill me,” Pryce said softly.
Tommy shook his head, and Hugh pushed past the two of them, thrusting himself directly in Visser’s face. He jabbed a blunt finger sharply into the Hauptmann’s chest.
“I know you, Visser!” the Canadian hissed. “I know your face! If you are lying to us, I will spend every second of every day of every month for the remainder of my years on this earth hunting you to the ground! You will not be able to hide, you Nazi scum, because I will be like a nightmare on your ass until I find you, and I will kill you with my own bare hands!”
The one-armed German did not shrink back. Instead, he merely stared directly into Hugh’s eyes, and said slowly, “The wing commander is to gather his possessions immediately and accompany me. Herr Blucher will see to his care, while in transit.”
Visser’s mocking grin slid past the Canadian, back to Phillip Pryce. “Alas, wing commander, we have no time for elaborate farewells. You are to embark immediately. Schnell!”
Pryce started to reply, then stopped, turning again to Tommy Hart. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I had hoped we three would walk out the gate together as free men. That would have been ever so nice, would it not?”
“Phillip!” Tommy choked, unable to speak the words that flooded him.
“You will be fine, lads,” Pryce continued. “Stick together. Promise me this: You will survive! No matter what happens, you boys are to live! I expect much from the both of you, and even if I’m not there to see it, as I’d hoped, that doesn’t mean you shan’t accomplish what you are capable of!”
Pryce’s hands quivered, and there was a warble in his voice. The older man’s fear filled the room.
Tommy shook his head. “No, Phillip, no. We’ll still be together and you can show me Piccadilly, and what was that restaurant? Just like you’ve promised. It will be okay, I know it.”
“Ah, Simpson’s on the Strand. I can taste it now. So, Tommy, you and Hugh will have to go there now without me, and raise a glass on my behalf. Nothing cheap, mind you! Hugh, no bottle of beer! A nice red wine. Something prewar and expensive, the color of deep burgundy. Something that plays a waltz across your taste buds, and cascades down your throat. That sounds wonderful. . . .”
“Phillip!” Tommy could barely control himself.
Pryce smiled at him, and then at Hugh, whose arm he also reached out and seized. “Boys, promise me you’ll not let them leave my carcass in the woods somewhere where the animals will gnaw on my old bones. Force them to return my ashes, and then spread them somewhere nice. Maybe over the Channel after all this is over. I think I would like that, so that the tides can wash them up on our beloved island’s shore. But anywhere where it is free, boys. I don’t mind dying alone, lads, but I’d like to think my remains went somewhere where they can enjoy a tiny breath of freedom—”
Visser interrupted sharply. “There is no time! Wing commander, please ready yourself!”
Pryce turned and scowled at the German. “That’s what I am doing!” he answered. He returned his eyes to his two younger companions. “They’ll shoot me in the forest,” he said softly. His voice had regained some strength, and he spoke with an almost matter-of-fact sense of resignation. It was as if Pryce wasn’t afraid so much as he was irritated by the thought of his imminent death. “Tommy, lad, here’s what they will tell you,” he whispered. “They’ll say I attempted to flee. That I made some sort of break for freedom. There was a struggle, and they were forced to fire their weapons. It will all be a lie, of course, and you boys will know it—”
Visser interrupted again, smiling with the same upturned scowl that he wore earlier when Von Reiter was threatening to shoot the British airmen who’d tried to escape. “A prisoner exchange,” Visser said. “Nothing more. So that the wing commander’s health is not our responsibility.”
“Stop lying,” Pryce said arrogantly. “No one believes you, and it makes you appear foolish.”
Visser’s smile faded.
“I am a German officer,” he said bitterly. “I do not lie!”
“The hell you don’t,” Pryce snorted. “Your lies fill this room with a disgusting stench.”
Visser took an angry step forward, then halted himself. He stared at Phillip Pryce with unbridled hatred. “We are leaving,” he said with barely restrained ferocity. “We are leaving now! This minute, wing commander!”
Pryce grabbed at Tommy once again. “Tommy,” he whispered, “this is not a coincidence! Nothing is what it seems! Dig deeper! Save him, lad, save him! For more than ever, now, I believe Scott is innocent!”
Two German soldiers stepped into the room, reaching out for Pryce, ready to drag him from the bunk room. The wiry, frail Englishman faced them down, and shrugged his shoulders at them. Then he turned to Hugh and Tommy, and said, “You’re on your own now, boys. And remember, I’m counting on you to live through all this! Survive! Whatever happens!”
He turned back to the Germans. “All right, Hauptmann,” he said with a sudden, exceedingly calm determination. “I’m ready now. Do with me what you will.”
Visser nodded, signaled the squad to surround him, and without another word, Pryce was marched down the corridor and through the front door. Tommy, Hugh, and the other British airmen of the hut raced after them, trailing after the old barrister, who marched with his shoulders stiffly back, his spine erect. He did not turn once as the odd procession crossed the assembly area. Nor did he hesitate as they passed through the gate, where steel-helmeted goons kept their weapons at the ready. Just beyond, adjacent to the commandant’s barracks, there was a large, black Mercedes motorcar waiting, its engine running, a small plume of exhaust trailing from its rear pipes.
Visser grasped a door and held it open for the Englishman. The Swiss Blucher quickly waddled around to the other side, and flung himself into the vehicle.
But Pryce paused for a single instant at the door to the motorcar, twisting around, and for a single, slow moment, stared back toward the camp, looking through the ubiquitous wire to where Tommy and Hugh stood helplessly watching his disappearance. Tommy saw him smile sadly, and raise his hand and make a small farewell wave, as if he were gesturing toward the waiting heavens, and then he gave a quick thumbs-up, and in the same motion, reached up and doffed his cap to all the British airmen gathered by the wire, with all the bravado of a man unafraid of any death, no matter how rough or lonely. Several of the airmen raised their voices to cheer, but this noise was cut short when one of the guards pushed Pryce roughly down into the backseat, and he disappeared from view.
With a roar, the car’s engine accelerated. The tires spun in the dirt. Raising a dust cloud behind and bouncing slightly on the rough roadway, it headed off in the direction of the line of tall trees and the forest.
Visser, too, watched the car depart. Then, the one-armed German turned slowly, victoriously, his face wearing a laugh that spoke of success. He stared across toward Tommy and Hugh for several seconds, before he sharply turned on his heel and marched into the office building. The wooden door clacked shut behind him.
Tommy waited. A sudden, abrupt silence enclosed him and inwardly he filled with resignation and rage, unsure which emotion would gain prominence. He half-expected to hear a single cracking pistol report rising from the woods.
“Bloody hell,” Hugh said softly after a few moments had passed. Tommy half-pivoted and saw there were tears streaming down the hulking Canadian’s cheeks, and then realized that the same was true of his own. “We’re on our own, now, Yank,” Hugh added. “Bloody fucking war. Bloody fucking goddamn fucking bloody fucking war. Why does everyone who’s worth more than half a damn on this sodden earth have to die?” Hugh’s voice cracked hard once, filled with an unrelenting sadness.
Tommy, who did not trust his own voice at that moment in the slightest, did not reply. He recognized, too, that he had absolutely no answer to this question.
Tommy trudged through the lengthening afternoon shadows, feeling the first intimations of the evening’s chill fight past the remaining sunlight. He tried to force himself to think of home instead of Phillip Pryce, tried to imagine Vermont in the early spring. He thought it was such a time of promise and expectation, after the harshness of winter. Each crocus that pushed itself through the damp and muddy soil, each bud that struggled to burst on the tip of its tree branch, held out hope. In the spring, the rivers choked with the runoff from melting winter snows, and he remembered that Lydia especially had liked to bicycle to the edge of the Battenkill, or to a narrow slot on the Mettawee, both places that he would later work hard for rising trout in the summer evenings, and watch as white frothy water burst and burbled and battled its way over the rocks. There was something invigorating in watching the sinuous muscularity of the water then; it had a life to it that spoke of better days to come.
He shook his head, sighing, the images of his home state distant and elusive. Almost every kriegie had some vision of home that they could rely upon, to conjure up in moments of despair and loneliness, a fantasy of the way things could be, if only they survived. But these familiar daydreams seemed suddenly unreachable to Tommy.
He stopped once, in the center of the assembly yard, and said out loud: “He’s dead by now.” He could envision Pryce’s body lying prone in the woods, the false Swiss Blucher standing above him with his Luger pistol still smoking. Not since the moment he’d seen the Lovely Lydia slide beneath the Mediterranean waves, leaving him bobbing in his life vest alone on the surface of the sea, had he felt so utterly abandoned. What he wanted to imagine was his home, his girl, and his future, but all that he could see were the dreary barracks of Stalag Luft Thirteen, the ever-present wire encircling him, and the recognition that his nightmares would now include a new ghost.
He smiled, for a moment, at the irony. In his imagination, he introduced his old captain from West Texas to Phillip Pryce. It was the only way, he thought right then, that he could prevent himself from breaking down and crying. He thought that Phillip would be stiff and formal, at first, while the captain from West Texas would be gregarious, a little overblown, but engaging all the same with his boyishness and enthusiasm. He envisioned the two shaking hands and thought that it would probably take them both a short time to come to understand each other—Phillip, of course, would complain that they spoke utterly different languages—but that they would find much in each other to like, and it would not be long before they would be telling jokes and slapping one another on the back, instantly the best of friends.
As he rounded the corner, heading toward Hut 101, Tommy imagined the initial conversation between the two ghosts. It would have some hilarity to it, he thought, before the two dead men realized how much they had in common on this earth. He smiled briefly, bittersweet, not a smile that spoke of any lessening of the troubled sensation dogging him, but a smile that had at least a small amount of release within it.
It was right at that moment that he heard the first raised angry voice. The anger was deep, impatient, and insistent, a cascade of fury and obscenities. And it took him no more than another second or two to recognize whose voice it was that was shouting—although he couldn’t quite make out all the words that were being bellowed.
He broke into a run, sprinting around the front of the barracks, and as the entranceway to Hut 101 came into view, he saw Lincoln Scott standing on the top step to the hut. In front of him were seventy-five to a hundred milling kriegies, all staring up at the black flier in a jostling, unsteady silence.
Scott’s face was contorted with anger. He jabbed a finger into the air above the other airmen.
“You are cowards!” he shouted. “Every last one of you! Cowards and cheats!”
Tommy didn’t hesitate. He raced forward.
Scott’s hand melded into a fist, which he waved in the air. “I will fight any one of you. Any five of you! Hell, I’ll fight you all, you cowards! Come on! Who’s gonna be first!”
Scott squared his shoulders, assuming a fighting sta
nce. Tommy could see his eyes racheting from man to man, ready.
“Cowards!” the black flier cried out again. “Come on, who wants a piece of me?”
The mass of men seemed to seethe, shifting back and forth, like the water in a pot right before it begins to boil up.
“Fucking nigger!” a voice called out, indistinguishable from the packed mass of men. Scott pivoted to the sound of the words.
“This nigger’s ready. Are you? Come on, goddamn it! Who’s gonna be first?”
“Screw you, killer! You’re gonna get yours from a Kraut firing squad!”
“Is that so?” Scott replied, his fists still clenched in front of him, his body twisting toward the sound of each catcall. “What, you aren’t man enough to try me on? Gonna let the Krauts do your dirty work for you? Chickens!” He squawked out mockingly, a rooster sound. “Come on,” he challenged the crowd again. “Why wait? Why not try and take a piece of me now! Or aren’t you men enough?”
The crowd surged forward, and Scott once again bent over slightly, like a boxer preparing for the inevitable jab to come flying his way, but readying the right cross counterpunch as a reply. A deadly reply. A boxing axiom: You must take one to give one, and Scott seemed utterly prepared for that trade-off.
Tommy reached down and summoned the deepest, most authoritative voice he could manage, and from the back of the mob, suddenly shouted out: “What the hell is going on!”
Scott stiffened slightly when he recognized Tommy’s presence. He didn’t answer, but remained in a fighting stance, facing the crowd.
“What’s going on?” Tommy demanded again. Like a swimmer working through a heavy surf, he pushed his way through the center of the crowd of white airmen. There were several faces he recognized; men who were scheduled to testify at the trial, men who had been Trader Vic’s roommates and friends, the leader of the jazz band and a few of his companions, who had threatened him in the corridor the previous day. These were the faces of the angriest men, and he suspected that the men who’d threatened him in his bed were there in that crowd. Only he recognized that he didn’t have time to scrutinize every face.
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