Townsend nodded slowly. “Ambidextrous means someone who is equally capable of using either right or left hand, correct?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Like a particularly skilled boxer?”
“I suppose so.”
“Objection!” Tommy again leapt to his feet.
Colonel MacNamara stared at him, and held up his hand for Tommy to halt before going further. “Yes, yes, I know what you’re going to say, Lieutenant Hart. This is a conclusion that the witness is not capable of reaching. Absolutely correct. Unfortunately, Mr. Hart, it is a conclusion that is obvious to the entire tribunal.” He waved Tommy back into his seat. “Do you have something further for Lieutenant Fenelli, captain?”
Townsend smiled, glanced over toward Major Clark, and shook his head.
“No sir. We have no more questions. He’s your witness now, Lieutenant Hart.”
Shaking with rage, his mind seared with every imaginable sensation of fury and betrayal, Tommy rose and, for a long second or two, simply stared across the room at the witness seated in front of him. His imagination was jumbled with confused emotions, all painted over in the red of anger. Tommy bit down on his lower lip, wanting to do nothing except savage Fenelli. He wanted to embarrass him and show him to the entire camp to be the back-stabbing dishonest gutless cowardly liar that Tommy believed him to be. He searched through the thicket of rage for the first question that would expose him to the assembly as the Judas Tommy considered him. Tommy was breathing hard and harsh, and he wanted his first query to be devastating.
He opened his mouth to fire this first salvo, but stopped, just as he caught, out of the corner of his eye, the look on Walker Townsend’s face. The captain from Virginia was leaning slightly forward, not so much grinning as he was flush with eagerness. And Tommy, in that short moment, realized something he thought important—that what Captain Townsend, and Major Clark at his side, were anticipating was not what Fenelli had already said from the witness stand. But what he was about to say, when Tommy thrust his first infuriated question across the theater.
Tommy took a deep breath. He glanced down at both Hugh Renaday and Lincoln Scott, and he could tell the two men wanted him to verbally carve the lying medic into tiny pieces.
He let out air slowly.
Then he looked past Fenelli, up to Colonel MacNamara.
“Colonel,” he said, plastering a small, fake smile onto his face. “Obviously Lieutenant Fenelli’s change of tune takes the defense by complete surprise. We would request that you adjourn these proceedings until tomorrow, so that we can discuss strategy.”
Captain Townsend rose. “Sir, there’s almost an hour until the evening Appell. I think we should continue as late as possible. There’s more than enough time for Mr. Hart to ask some questions, and then, if need be, continue in the morning.”
Tommy coughed. He crossed his arms in front of him and realized that he had just avoided a trap. The problem was, he couldn’t quite see what the trap was. He glanced sideways and noticed that Major Clark had curled his hands into fists.
MacNamara seemed oddly oblivious to what was going on. Instead, he started to shake his head back and forth. “Lieutenant Hart is correct,” he said slowly. “There’s less than an hour. Not really enough time, and these things are better when they’re not cut in two. We’ll recess now, and pick up again in the morning.” He turned briefly toward Hauptmann Visser, sitting by the side of the room, and lectured him with an irritated, inconvenienced tone of voice: “We could be far more efficient here, Herr Hauptmann, and bring things to a much more rapid and orderly conclusion if we were not constantly having to interrupt ourselves for the regularly scheduled roll calls. Will you bring this up with Commandant Von Reiter?”
Visser nodded. “I will mention it to him, colonel,” he replied dryly.
“Very good,” MacNamara said. “Lieutenant Fenelli, please remember that just like the other witnesses, you are under oath and not to discuss your testimony or any other aspect of this case with any other person. Understand?”
“Of course, sir,” Fenelli answered briskly.
“Then we are dismissed until tomorrow,” MacNamara said, rising.
As before, Tommy, Scott, and Hugh Renaday waited for the theater to empty out, remaining at their table silently, until the last echo of flight boots faded from the cavernous room behind them. Lincoln Scott was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the vacant witness chair.
Renaday pushed back from the table hard, and spoke first. “Blasted liar!” he said angrily. “Tommy, why didn’t you go right after him? Tear his dishonest throat out!”
“Because that was what they wanted. Or, at the least, that was what they expected. And what Fenelli said was bad enough. But maybe what he was about to say was going to be worse.”
“How do you know that?” Renaday sputtered.
“I don’t,” Tommy said flatly. “I’m just guessing.”
“What could he say that was worse?”
Again, Tommy shrugged. “He was equivocating on all those lies, lots of maybes and couldas and shouldas. Perhaps when I asked him about being paid a visit by Townsend and Clark, perhaps he wasn’t going to be quite as unsteady. Maybe the next lie was going to sink us. But I’m guessing. Again.”
“Bloody dangerous guesswork, my lad,” Hugh said. “Just gives the deceitful bastard all night to ready himself for the onslaught.”
“I don’t know about that,” Tommy said. “I think I’ll pay Mr. Fenelli a little visit after dinner.”
“But MacNamara said . . .”
“The hell with MacNamara,” Tommy replied. “What the hell can he do to me? I’m already a prisoner of war.”
This response tripped a slight, sad grin onto Lincoln Scott’s face. He nodded. But he did not speak, seeming to prefer to keep all the terrifying thoughts that had to be burning within him contained. And one thing was obvious: Perhaps Colonel MacNamara couldn’t really do anything worse to Tommy, but that wasn’t the case for Lincoln Scott.
The evening sky was clearing, the irritating cold drizzle had ceased, and there was a little promise of milder weather ahead at the evening Appell. Tommy stood patiently beside Lincoln Scott as the mind-numbing process of being counted was repeated again. He wondered for a moment just exactly how many times the Germans had counted him during his years at Stalag Luft Thirteen, and he pledged that if he ever made it home to Vermont, he would never ever allow anyone to count his head out loud ever again.
He looked around, searching the rows of fliers for Fenelli, but was unable to spot him. Tommy figured he would be lurking in the back row of one of the formations, as distant from the men in Hut 101 as possible. This made no difference to Tommy. He intended to wait until the hour right before the lights were going out to make his real search. He was reviewing what he was going to say to the would-be medic, trying to find the right combination of anger and understanding that would get Fenelli to tell him why he’d changed his story. Clark and Townsend had reached him, Tommy knew. But just how he wasn’t sure, and that was what he needed to know. He also needed to know what it was that Fenelli was intending to say in the morning.
Other than that pursuit, he recognized that he was more or less out of tricks. He had no evidence to present. The only witness for the defense was Scott himself. Scott and whatever eloquence Tommy could muster. He shook his head. Not much to offer. He expected Scott to be a terrible witness, and he had great doubts over his own ability to sway anyone—much less Colonel MacNamara and the other two members of the court—with any sort of impassioned speech.
He heard the bellow of dismissal from the front of the formations and wordlessly he followed Scott and Hugh back across the parade ground toward Hut 101. He paid no attention to the buzz of voices around them.
As they walked down the center corridor of the barracks, Hugh spoke out. “We need to eat something. But there’s not much in the larder, I’ll wager.”
“You go ahead,” Scott said. �
��I have almost a full parcel left. Take whatever you need and fix something for yourselves. I’m just not that hungry.”
Hugh started to respond, then stopped. Both he and Tommy knew this statement for the lie it was, because everyone was always hungry at Stalag Luft Thirteen.
Scott stepped ahead of the two others and thrust open the door to their room. He pushed inside, but stopped after traveling only a few feet. Behind him, both Tommy and Hugh paused.
“What is it?” Tommy asked.
“We’ve had visitors again,” Scott said flatly. “I’ll be damned.”
Tommy slid past the black airman’s broad shoulders. He could see that Lincoln Scott was staring at something, and Tommy fully expected another crude sign. But what he saw stopped him in his tracks as well.
Stuck into the rough-hewn wooden frame of Tommy’s bunk, right above the threadbare pillow for his head, reflecting the harsh, bright light from the overhead bulb, was a knife.
Not a knife. The knife. The death’s head skull at the tip of the handle seemed to grin directly at him.
Hugh had pressed forward as well. “Well, about bloody time someone here did the damn right thing,” he muttered. “That’s got to be it, Tommy, my boy. The murder weapon. And now, thank God, we’ve got it!”
The three men approached the knife carefully.
“Has anything else been disturbed?” Tommy asked.
“Doesn’t look that way,” Scott replied.
“Is there a note?”
“No. None that I can see.”
Tommy shook his head. “There should be a note,” he insisted.
“Why?” Hugh asked. “The damn thing pretty much speaks for itself. Maybe that fighter jock, the fellow from New York who first told you about it, maybe he’s our anonymous benefactor.”
“Maybe,” Tommy said warily. He reached out and gingerly removed the blade from the wood. It glistened in his hand, almost as if it had a voice of its own, which, in a way, it did. He raised it and inspected the knife as closely as possible. It had been cleaned of any blood or other incriminating matter, so that it appeared almost brand new. He hefted it in his hand. It was light, yet solid. He ran a finger up and down the double edges. They were razor-sharp. The point had not been dulled, not by being thrust into Trader Vic’s neck or by being stabbed into the wood of Tommy’s bunk. The handle itself was onyx-black and polished to a reflective sheen and obviously carved by a craftsman. The death’s head skull was a pearly white color, almost translucent. The dagger seemed to speak of ritual and terror, simultaneously. It was a cruel thing, Tommy thought, that combined an awful mixture of symbolism and murderous intent. It was, he realized suddenly, the most valuable thing he’d held in his own hand in months, and then, just as swiftly, he thought this untrue, that any single one of his law books was more important and, in their own way, more dangerous. He smiled, and realized that he was being sophomorically idealistic.
“Well, that’s the first bit of luck we’ve had,” Hugh exclaimed. “Something of a surprise for Lieutenant Fenelli tomorrow, I’d say.” He took the blade from Tommy’s hand, weighed it, and added, “A nasty bit of business, this.”
Scott reached out and took his turn with the knife. He remained quiet until he handed it back to Tommy.
“I don’t trust it,” he said sharply.
“What do you mean?” Hugh asked. “That’s the bloody murder weapon, all right.”
“Yes. That’s probably true. And it shows up here magically? Right at the darkest hour? At least that’s what someone would say. A bad poet.”
“Maybe. But maybe it’s about time someone saw how damnably unfair this whole show has been!” Hugh blurted out. “Somebody finally thought to level the playing field a bit, and what right have we to complain?”
“You don’t mean we, Hugh. You mean me,” Scott replied softly.
Hugh snorted, but nodded in slow agreement.
Scott turned to face Tommy. “No one in the camp wants to help. Not a person.”
“We’ve had this argument before,” Tommy responded. “We don’t know that what you say is true. At least, not for certain.”
Scott rolled his eyes skyward. “Sure. If that’s what you want to think.” Then he looked down at the ceremonial dagger again. “Look at that knife, Tommy. It stands for evil and it’s already served an evil cause. It has death all over it. Now, I know you may not be all that religious with your Vermont Yankee stubbornness and everything”—he was half-smiling as he spoke—“and after all, I like to think that I’m much more modern than my old preacher father, who gets up on the pulpit on Sunday mornings and likes to loudly and forthrightly proclaim that anything not directly connected to the Good Book has little or no value on this earth, but still, Tommy, Hugh, you look at that thing, and you realize no good and certainly no truth can come out of it.”
“You’re too bloody philosophical and not pragmatic enough,” Hugh said.
“Perhaps,” Scott replied. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
Tommy said nothing. He put the blade down on his bunk after stroking the handle a final time. Even cleaned, it wasn’t hard to imagine how an expert handling such a weapon would find it easy to slip it into the throat of a man, commando-style, severing the larynx on the path to the brainpan. He shuddered. It was a type of killing that seemed hard and unfamiliar; though had he really considered it, he would have seen that in a war there was truly little difference between forcing the dagger into a man’s neck and skipping a five-hundred-pound bomb across the waves toward him. But Tommy was trapped with the vision of Trader Vic’s last seconds, and he wondered if the Mississippian had felt any pain, or if he was merely surprised and slightly confused as he felt the knife slide home.
Tommy shuddered. Scott was right, he thought. It was an evil thing. He realized right then that when he produced it at the trial in the morning, right before Hauptmann Visser’s eyes, it would probably cost Fritz Number One his life, and perhaps demand a similar price of Commandant Von Reiter. At the least, the two men would soon be heading east to the Russian front, which was more or less the same thing. Tommy knew that Fritz had been telling the truth about that, at least. Visser also would know that there was only one way that knife came into the camp. Tommy had the odd thought that the blade resting on his thin gray blanket was capable of killing the two Germans without even piercing their skin.
He wondered whether the person who had delivered the blade to Tommy’s bunk room knew the same. He was abruptly filled with suspicions. For a second, he glanced at Lincoln Scott, and thought to himself that the black airman was more right than wrong. The sudden appearance of the knife at this late hour might not be of help. He had the same sensation he’d experienced in the courtroom, when he’d stopped himself from launching questions like bombs at Fenelli. A trap? he wondered to himself.
But a trap for whom?
He shook his head. “Screw it,” he said. “I think it’s time that I go and have a little talk with our ex-witness,” he said. “The one on whom we had so much riding. Maybe it’s time to ask him, privately, why he changed his tale.”
“I wonder what the hell they promised him,” Lincoln Scott said. “What can you bribe a man with here?”
Tommy did not answer this, though he thought it an extremely good question. He reached over and took the knife and wrapped it in one of the few relatively intact pairs of woolen olive drab socks that he owned. Then he stuffed it into the interior pocket of his flight jacket.
“You’re taking it?” Lincoln Scott asked. “Why?”
“Because,” Tommy replied quietly, “it does occur to me that this is the real murder weapon we’re holding, and what’s to prevent Major Clark and Captain Townsend from sauntering in here in the next few minutes, just like they did before, and performing one of their little illegal searches and claiming in court tomorrow that we’ve had the damn thing in our possession for days? That maybe the only person who ever had possession of this knife was Lincoln Scott?”
Neither of the others had seen this possibility. Lincoln Scott smiled sadly. “You’ve become a suspicious type, Tommy,” he said.
“With good reason,” Tommy replied. He watched as Scott turned, his shoulders slumped by the weight of what was happening to him, and threw himself onto his bunk, where he rested immobile.
He seems resigned, Tommy thought. Perhaps for the first time, he thought he saw some defeat in the shadows beneath the black flier’s eyes, and thought he’d heard failure in the tone of each word he spoke.
He tried not to think about this as he headed out into the early evening, searching for Fenelli, the lying medic, who, he thought, in his own way, might be every bit as dangerous as the knife concealed next to his breast.
The light was fading quickly as Tommy made his way across the camp to the medical services hut. It was that indistinct time of day when the sky only remembers the sunlight and insists on the promise of night. Most of the kriegies were inside already, many engaged in the elaborate and inadequate preparation of dinner. The more conscientious and deliberate a kriegie cook was in assembling the modest foodstuffs and organizing the evening meal, generally spoke to how little there was at that moment to eat. As he passed one hut, Tommy could smell the ubiquitous odor of processed meat being fried. It gnawed at his stomach in typical prisoner-of-war fashion. He desperately would have liked a slice, wet with greasy drippings, on top of a fresh hunk of kriegsbrot, yet at the same time he vowed that if he ever got home, he’d never touch a piece of processed meat again.
There was a single light shining in the dirty window of the medical services hut, which he spotted as he came around the corner of Hut 119. For a second, he looked past the buildings, out through the wire to the modest cemetery. He thought that it was a particular cruelty of the Germans that they had allowed the men who died to be buried outside the wire. It made a mockery of every kriegie’s yearning for freedom and home. The only men no longer in prison were six feet beneath the ground.
Hart's War Page 42
