Hart's War

by John Katzenbach

  The Senior American Officer was drumming his fingers against the table, doing little to conceal his irritation as Tommy, Hugh, and the defendant picked their way through the audience. The center aisle was so congested with kriegies that any attempt to enter in formation, as they had before, would have been thwarted by the overflow crowd, which barely had enough room to squeeze tightly together and let the three men pass. Murmurs, whispers, and a few softly spoken comments flowed behind them like the modest white frothy wake behind a sailboat. Tommy did not listen to the words, but took note of the different tones, some angry, some encouraging, some merely confused.

  He took a quick glance at Commandant Von Reiter, who now occupied a seat just to the left of Heinrich Visser. The German commander was rocking slightly in his seat, grinning faintly. Visser, however, was stone-faced, impassive. Tommy was still unsure whether Visser had helped or hurt the case, but he had done one important service, which was to remind all the kriegies who the real enemy was, which, on balance, Tommy thought, was better than anything else he could have wished for. The problem that remained was to make the men of Stalag Luft Thirteen remember that Scott was on their side. One of them. And that, Tommy thought, would be difficult enough and maybe impossible.

  “You are supposed to be in position, ready for trial, along with the rest of us, Mr. Hart,” Colonel MacNamara said stiffly.

  Tommy did not reply to this statement, but merely said, “We are ready now to proceed, colonel.”

  “Then please do so,” MacNamara said. His words were singularly cool.

  “The defense at this time would call First Lieutenant Lincoln Scott of the 332nd Fighter Group to the witness stand!” Tommy said as forcefully as he could, his own voice lifted up over the heads of all the gathered men.

  Scott pushed himself out of his seat at the defense table and crossed the space to the witness chair in three great strides. He rapidly seized the Bible offered to him, swore under oath to tell the truth, and thrust himself into the seat. He looked up toward Tommy with the eagerness of the boxer he was, awaiting the sound of the bell.

  “Lieutenant Scott, tell us how you arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen.”

  “I was shot down. Like everyone else.”

  “Then how was it that you were shot down?”

  “A Focke-Wulf got on my tail and I couldn’t shake him before he got off a lucky shot. End of story.”

  “Not exactly,” Tommy said. “Let’s try this differently: Did there come a time when, having completed your regular patrol and en route to your base, you heard a stricken and crippled B-17 broadcast a call for help across an open air channel?”

  Scott paused, and nodded. “Yes.”

  “A desperate call?”

  “I suppose so, Mr. Hart. He was all alone and had two engines out and half his tail stabilizer shot away and was in trouble. Big trouble.”

  “Two engines out and he was under attack?”

  “Yes.”

  “By a half-dozen enemy fighters?”

  “Yes.”

  Tommy paused. He understood that every man in the audience knew exactly what the men in that bomber’s chances had been at the moment they pleaded for help from anyone who might hear them. As close to zero as a flier could get. Death for them was only seconds away.

  “And you and your wing man, the two of you, you went to this crippled plane’s aid?”

  “That is what we did.”

  “You didn’t have to?”

  “No,” Scott replied. “I suppose not technically, Mr. Hart. The plane belonged to a group that was not one we were assigned to protect. But you and I know that that is only a technical consideration. Of course we had to help. So, to suggest that we didn’t have to, well, that’s a foolish statement, Mr. Hart. We did not think we had a choice in the matter. We simply attacked.”

  “I see. You didn’t think you had a choice. Two against six. And how much ammunition did you have remaining when you dove into the attack?”

  “A few seconds. Just enough for a couple of bursts.” Scott paused, then added, “I don’t see why I need to go through this, Mr. Hart. It hasn’t got anything to do with the charges here.”

  “We’ll get to those, lieutenant. But everyone else who’s taken the stand has explained how they managed to land here in this camp, and so will you. So, you attacked a vastly superior enemy force all the time knowing you did not have enough ammunition to make more than one or two passes?”

  “That is correct. We both managed to down a Focke-Wulf on the first attack, and we hoped that would draw them off. It didn’t work out that way.”

  “What happened?”

  “Two fighters tangled with us, two pursued the bomber.”

  “And what happened next?”

  “We managed to scare off the two, by getting around behind them. With the last of my ammunition I shot down another. Then we went after the remaining fighters.”

  “Without ammunition?”

  “Well, it had worked before.”

  “What happened this time?”

  “I got shot down.”

  “Your wing man?”

  “He died.”

  Tommy paused, letting this sink in to the audience.

  “The B-17?”

  “He made it home. Safe and sound.”

  “Who flies in the 332nd?”

  “Men from all over the States.”

  “And what distinguishes you?”

  “We are volunteers. No draftees.”

  “What else?”

  “We are all Negroes. Trained at Tuskegee, Alabama.”

  “Has any bomber being protected by the 332nd Fighter Group been lost to enemy fighter action?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why is that?”

  Scott hesitated. He had kept his eyes directly on Tommy throughout the exchange, and they did not waver now, save for one wide look, where Scott took in the expanse of the audience, before returning to fix Tommy with his singular, rigid stare.

  “We had all agreed, when we first got our wings. Made a rule. A credo, you might say. No white boy we were assigned to protect was going to die.”

  Tommy paused, letting this statement reverberate above the silent crowd in the courtroom.

  “Now, when you arrived here,” Tommy continued, “did you make friends with any other kriegie?”

  “No.”

  “None?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I had never had a white friend, Lieutenant Hart. I did not think I needed to start here.”

  “And now? Do you have any friends now, Lieutenant Scott?”

  He hesitated again, shrugged slightly, and said, “Well, Mr. Hart, I suppose that I would now consider yourself and Flying Officer Renaday to be somewhat closer to that category.”

  “And that would be it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, Captain Vincent Bedford . . .”

  “I hated him. He hated me. The color of my skin seemed to be the basis for that hatred, Mr. Hart, but I suspect it went further. When he looked at me, he did not see a single man thrust into the same circumstances as he was. He saw an enemy that went back centuries. A far greater enemy than any German we might be at war with. And I, I must admit, unfortunately, saw much the same in him. He was the man who enslaved, tortured, and worked my ancestors to death. It was like being confronted by a nightmare that has not only afflicted yourself, but your father and your grandfather and every generation that went before you.”

  “Did you kill Vincent Bedford?”

  “No. I did not! I would have gladly fought Vincent Bedford, and if, in that fight, he should have died, then I would not have been saddened. But would I have stalked him through the night, as these men suggest, and crept up and attacked him from behind like some sort of weak and reprehensible coward? No sir! I would not now, not ever, do such a thing!”

  “You would not?”

  Scott was sitting forward, his voice ringing through th
e courtroom. “No. But did I rejoice when I heard that someone had? Yes. Yes, I did! Even when they falsely accused me, I still, within myself, was thankful for what had happened, because I believed Vincent Bedford to be evil!”

  “Evil?”

  “Yes. A man who lives a lie, as he did, is evil.”

  Tommy stopped then. What he heard in Scott’s words went in a direction different from what he thought the black flier meant. But he felt a rush straight through the core of his body, for he had just seen something about Vincent Bedford that he doubted anyone else saw, with the possible exception of the man who murdered him. For a second, Tommy paused, almost swaying as he was buffeted by thoughts. Then he scrambled, turning back to face Scott, who eagerly awaited the next question.

  “You heard Hauptmann Visser suggest that you assisted someone else in the commission of this crime. . . .”

  Scott smiled. “I think everyone here knows how crazy that suggestion was, Mr. Hart. What were the Hauptmann’s own words? Ridiculous and ludicrous. No one in this camp trusts me. There’s no one in this camp I trust. Not with some wild conspiracy to murder another officer.”

  Tommy stole a look toward Visser, whose face had reddened, and who shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Then he turned back to his client.

  “Who killed Vincent Bedford?”

  “I do not know. I know only who they want to blame.”

  “And that would be?”

  “That would be me.”

  Scott hesitated one more time, then loudly added, with all the intensity of the preacher calling up to the heavens, “This war is filled with innocent people dying every minute, every second, Mr. Hart. If this is my time, innocent though I am, then so be it! But I am innocent of these charges and will remain that way until the day I die!”

  Tommy let these words fill the courtroom, echoing above the crowd of kriegies. Then he turned to Walker Townsend.

  “Your witness,” he said quietly.

  The captain from Virginia rose, and moved slowly to the center of the courtroom. He had one hand upon his chin, stroking the stubble gathered there, in the almost-universal aspect of a man considering his words very carefully. Across from him, Tommy could see that Scott was poised in his seat, a portrait of both electricity and energy, anticipating the first question from the prosecutor. There was no nervousness in Scott’s eyes, only an alertness and a fighter’s concentration. Tommy recognized in that second why Scott must have been such a force behind the stick of his Mustang; the black airman had the unique capacity to focus solely on the fight in front of him. He was a true warrior, Tommy thought, and in his own way far more professional than even the career officers hanging on his every word. The only man in the courtroom who Tommy believed could approach the intensity in which Scott cloaked himself was Heinrich Visser. The difference was that Scott’s singleness of purpose came from a righteousness, whereas Visser’s was the dedication of the devoted fanatic. In a fair fight, Tommy thought, Scott would be more than a match for Visser and far more capable than Walker Townsend. The problem was, the fight wasn’t fair.

  “Let us take this slowly and carefully, lieutenant,” Townsend started, his words almost caressing. “Let’s talk first about the means . . .”

  “As you wish, captain,” Scott replied.

  “You do not deny, do you, lieutenant, that the weapon produced by the prosecution was manufactured by yourself?”

  “I do not. I did indeed build that knife.”

  “And you do not deny making the threatening statements, do you?”

  “No sir. I do not. I made those statements in an effort to create some space between myself and Captain Bedford. Perhaps by threatening him, he would keep his distance.”

  “Did this happen?”

  “No.”

  “So we have only your word that these statements were not actual threats, but an effort to . . . what did you say, ‘create distance’?”

  “That is correct,” Scott answered sharply.

  Walker Townsend nodded, but the motion clearly implied that he understood something the opposite of what Scott had said. “And on the night of Captain Bedford’s murder, lieutenant, you do not deny rising from your bunk and being abroad in the corridor of Hut 101, do you?”

  “No. That, too, is true.”

  “All right. Now sir, you do not deny that you have the strength to have lifted the body of Captain Bedford and carried him some distance—”

  “I did not do this. . . .” Scott interrupted.

  “But do you have the strength, lieutenant?”

  Lincoln Scott paused, thought for a second, then replied, “Yes. I do have the strength. And with either arm, captain, and over either shoulder, as well, if I may anticipate your next question.”

  Walker Townsend smiled slightly, nodding. “Thank you, lieutenant. You most certainly did. Now, let’s discuss motive for a moment. You do not hide your contempt for Captain Bedford, even in death, do you, sir?”

  “No. That is correct.”

  “You would say your life has improved by his death, true?”

  It was Scott’s turn to smile faintly. “Well, you probably want to rephrase that question, captain. Is my life better because I no longer have to confront the cracker bastard every day . . . well, yes. But this is an illusory advantage, captain, when one’s days may very well be limited by a firing squad.”

  Walker Townsend nodded. “I concede your point, lieutenant. But you do not deny that every day the two of you existed in this camp together, that Vincent Bedford provided you with a motive to kill him, do you?”

  Scott shook his head. “No, captain, that is not correct. Captain Bedford’s actions provided me with a motive to hate him and what he stood for. They provided me with a motive to confront him, to show him that I would not be cowed or intimidated by his racist statements. Even when he tried to get me to cross the deadline to retrieve that softball, which could have cost me my life were it not for Lieutenant Hart’s shout of warning, still, that act and the others provided me with a motive to fight Captain Bedford. Fighting and confrontation and a refusal to shuck and shuffle and accept his behavior passively do not constitute a motive to murder, captain, despite your need to twist it into one.”

  “But you did hate him . . .”

  “We do not always kill what we hate, captain. Nor do we always hate what we kill.”

  Townsend did not follow up immediately with another question, and a momentary silence shifted onto the courtroom. Tommy had just enough time to think that Scott was doing quite well, when a strident voice burst from the crowd at his back, searing across the room.

  “Liar! Lying black bastard!” There was an unmistakable southern accent marring each of the words.

  “Killer! Goddamn lying murderer!” a second voice shouted out from a different section of the audience.

  And then, just as rapidly, a third cry, only this time the words seemed directed at the men who’d first shouted. “It’s the truth!” someone yelled. “Can’t you tell the truth when you hear it?” These words had a Boston flat A tone that Tommy recognized from his days at Harvard.

  In a corner of the theater, there was a scuffling sound, and pushing and shoving. As Tommy pivoted, staring back into the mix of kriegies, he saw a couple of fliers suddenly chest to chest. Within seconds the noise of anger and confrontation erupted in more than one spot in the large room, and jam-packed men started to push and gesture. It seemed almost as if three or four fights were about to break out before Colonel MacNamara started to crash his gavel down furiously, the hammering noise punctuating the cascade of angry voices.

  “Damn it! Order!” MacNamara cried out. “I will clear this court if you cannot maintain discipline!”

  The room seemed to glow red for an instant, continuing to throb before settling into an uneasy quiet.

  Colonel MacNamara allowed the tense silence to continue, before he threatened the crowd of kriegies again. “I recognize that there are differences of opinion, and that feelings are
strong,” he said flatly. “But we must remain orderly! A military trial must be a public event, for all to witness! I warn you men, do not make me take steps to control any further outbursts before they should happen!”

  Then MacNamara did something that, to Tommy’s eyes, seemed unusual. The SAO briefly turned toward Commandant Von Reiter, and said, “This is exactly what I have repeatedly warned you about, Herr Oberst!”

  Von Reiter nodded his head in acknowledgment of what MacNamara said. Then the SAO turned back to Walker Townsend, and made a small gesture for the prosecutor to continue.

  Something else struck Tommy in that second. Every other time there had been even the slightest disruption in the proceedings, MacNamara had been furiously quick with his gavel. In fact, Tommy thought, the one thing that MacNamara seemed most capable of doing was slamming that gavel onto the table, because he certainly wasn’t astute about the law or criminal procedures. This time, however, it almost seemed to Tommy as if the SAO had waited until after the first outburst, and that MacNamara had allowed the tensions to bubble close to the boil-over point, before demanding order. It was, to Tommy’s mind, almost as if MacNamara had expected the outburst.

  He considered this most curious, but did not have the time to reflect further, as Walker Townsend immediately launched into another question.

  “What you want, Lieutenant Scott, is for this tribunal, and for all the men gathered here listening to you, what you want all of us to believe is that on the night of Captain Bedford’s death, at some point after you went out to the corridor, and were seen skulking around in the dark, that you returned to your bunk and did not notice that some unknown person had removed your flight jacket and boots from their customary locations, and had stolen this sword you constructed from your kit, taken these items and utilized them in the murder of Captain Bedford and then returned them to your room, and that subsequently you did not observe the blood staining them? This is what you want us all to believe, is it not, lieutenant?”

  Scott paused, then responded firmly.

  “Yes. Precisely.”

  “Lies!” shouted out a voice from the back, ignoring MacNamara’s warning.