Scott pushed off the wall and walked over to Tommy Hart. He touched him on the shoulder in what, had Tommy been
paying close attention, he would have recognized was perhaps the first spontaneous display of some sort of affection that the black airman had managed since his arrival at Stalag Luft Thirteen.
“Come on, Tommy,” he said softly, “the case is over. You did what you were supposed to do. In any civilized world, you would have succeeded in creating a reasonable doubt, which is all that the law is supposed to require. The trouble is, we just don’t currently live in a civilized world.”
Scott paused, breathing in deeply, before continuing. “I guess now all we have to do is wait for the verdict that we’ve known was coming straight at me since the morning Vic’s body was found.”
This statement finally shook Tommy loose from the near-trance he’d been in, since the end of the court session that day. He looked over at Lincoln Scott and slowly shook his head.
“Over?” Tommy said. “Lincoln, the case has just begun.”
Scott looked at him quizzically.
From the bunk, Hugh said, almost exhausted, “Now, Tommy, you’ve managed to lose me on that one. Begun? How?”
Tommy abruptly pounded one fist into an open palm, and then, just like Scott, he suddenly punched out at the emptiness in the room, whirling about, snapping off a couple of jabs, then throwing a wild left hook at the air in front of them. The single harsh overhead bulb burning above him threw exaggerated streaks of light across his face.
“What am I doing?” he demanded suddenly, stopping in his tracks in the center of the room, grinning maniacally at the other two men.
“Acting like a crazy fool,” Hugh said, managing a smile.
“Shadow-boxing,” Scott replied.
“That’s right. Exactly right! And that’s what’s been going on over the past few days.” Tommy put a hand to his head, pushed his shock of hair away from his eyes, then lowered his index finger to his lips. He tiptoed over to the door, opened it gingerly, and looked out into the corridor, checking to see if anyone was watching them or listening in. But the corridor was empty. He closed the door and turned back to the two other men, an exaggerated look of excitement on his face.
“I have been a fool not to have seen it earlier,” he said quietly, though each word seemed to glow incandescently.
“See what?” Scott asked. Hugh nodded in agreement.
Tommy stepped toward the two others, and began to whisper. “What do we know Trader Vic traded for, right before his death?”
“The knife that killed him.”
“Right. Right. The knife. The knife we needed. The knife we had, then gave up, and which Visser seems so intent on finding. The damn knife. The all-important damn knife. Okay. But what else?”
The other two looked at each other. “What do you mean,” Scott started. “It was the knife that was critical. . . .”
“No.” Tommy shook his head. “The knife had everybody’s attention, right. It killed Vic. No doubt. But what Bedford also managed to acquire for some unknown men in this camp was just as important. That fighter pilot, the guy from New York, he told us he saw Vic with some German currency and official papers and also with a train schedule. . . .”
“Yes, but . . .”
“A schedule!”
Lincoln and Hugh remained silent.
“I just didn’t think about it, because I was, like everybody else, thinking about the goddamn knife! Now, why would any kriegie need a schedule, unless someone thought he could catch a train? But that’s impossible, right? No one has ever escaped from this camp! Because even if you could somehow get past the wire and then through the woods into town without being spotted, and managed to get to the station platform, why, by the time the seven-fifteen or whatever train that’s heading to Switzerland and safety came chugging in, the place would be crawling with Krauts and Gestapo goons looking for your sorry butt, because the alarm would already have sounded right here at dear old Stalag Luft Thirteen! Right. We all know that! And we all know that the fact that no one has ever gotten out of here has been eating away at Colonel MacNamara and his slimy little sidekick Clark for months.” Then Tommy lowered his voice yet another octave, so that his words were spoken in little more than a whisper. “But what is different about tomorrow that has never once been different?”
Again the others simply stared at him.
“Tomorrow is different because of one thing, and it’s the one thing that this trial has required the Germans to do. Different from any other day that we’ve been here. Think about it! What never changes? Not on Christmas or New Year’s. Not on the nicest day of summer. Not on goddamn Adolf Hitler’s official birthday! What is the one thing that never changes? The morning count! Same time. Same place. Same thing every day! Day in. Day out. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year and leap year, too. Like clockwork, the sun comes up and then the damn Krauts count us every morning. Except for tomorrow. Because the Germans have graciously agreed to postpone the Appell because everyone is concerned that the rendering of the verdict in this case will cause a riot! The Krauts, who never, ever change their damn routines, are changing theirs tomorrow! So, tomorrow, and tomorrow only, the count will be delayed. What? An hour? Two hours? All those damn nice convenient formations five-deep to make it easier for the Krauts to count us! Well, tomorrow the formations won’t happen until far past their usual time.”
Scott and Hugh looked at each other. There was a wildness in Tommy’s eyes that seemed infectious, and passed quickly to the others.
“You’re saying . . .” Scott started.
But Tommy finished for him. “Tomorrow those formations will be short some men.”
Scott said, “Keep going, Tommy,” as he listened.
“You see, if only one man, or two, maybe as many as three or four were blitzing out, well, you could probably cover up for them when the ferrets make their way up and down the rows—although that’s never happened. I suppose it’s conceivable that you could find a way to give them the couple of hours’ head start they would need. But more? How about twenty men? Thirty? Fifty? That number missing would be obvious from the first minute at Appell, and the alarm would sound. So, how do you give them enough time, especially when you can’t have all fifty jump on the first train that comes rolling into the station? When you need to spread out the numbers and catch trains over the course of the entire morning?”
Hugh pointed a finger at Tommy, as he nodded his head. “Makes bloody sense,” he said. “Makes absolutely bloody sense. You’ve got to delay that morning count! Except I still don’t see what Vic’s death has to do with an escape.”
“I don’t know, either,” Tommy said. “Not quite yet. But I’m damn certain it has something to do with it, and I’m going to find out what tonight!”
“Okay, I’ll go along with that. But how does Scott facing a firing squad fit into this?” Hugh asked.
Tommy shook his head. “Another good question,” he said. “And another answer I’m going to get tonight. But I’d be willing to wager my last pack of smokes that someone ready and willing to kill Trader Vic in order to get out of this damn place sure as hell wouldn’t think twice about leaving Lincoln behind to face a German firing squad, either. A very angry German firing squad.”
This statement drew no response from the others because its truth was so glaringly obvious.
It was a few minutes before one A..M. on the luminescent dial of the watch that Lydia had given him when Tommy Hart heard the first faint sounds of movement in the corridor outside their barracks room. Since the moment the Germans had extinguished the electricity throughout the camp, the three men had taken turns perched beside the door, craning to pick up the telltale noises of men moving as silently as possible toward the exit. Waiting had been a gamble. More than once Tommy had to overcome the urge to simply gather the others and head out into the night. But he had remembered that on another night he’d awakened to hear men heading out, and he gue
ssed that the same trio as before were on the list of men taking their chance for freedom that morning. Following was a better idea than simply launching himself and the others out into all the dangers of the searchlights and trigger-quick goons, not really knowing where they were heading. Tommy had a good idea that he knew which of the huts were strong possibilities as the gathering place for the escapees: either 105, where the murder had taken place, or 107, the next hut over, and although not the closest to the wire and the forest beyond, not the farthest, either.
His companions sat behind him, waiting on the edge of a bunk, wordlessly. Tommy could see their faces in the glow of Hugh’s cigarette.
“There!” Tommy whispered. He held a hand up in the air and bent even closer to the thick wooden door. He could hear the slightest vibration of footsteps padding against the floor planks. He envisioned what was taking place in the corridor a few feet away. The kriegies would have been briefed, and they would have already prepared their escape kits. They would be wearing clothes tailored to make them appear to be civilians. They might carry a suitcase or a valise. They would have collected some extra rations. Their forged identity papers, work and travel permits, maybe even tickets for the train, would be sewn inside their jacket pockets. There would be no need for words, but each man, inwardly, silently, would be practicing the few phrases of memorized German that they hoped would be enough to carry them to the Swiss border. Following a precise order, they would stop at the door, wait for the lights to swing past, then exit rapidly. They wouldn’t chance even a candle on this night, Tommy thought. Instead, each man would have counted the number of paces from his bunk to the door.
Tommy wheeled toward the others. “Not a sound,” he said. “Not one sound. Get ready . . .”
But Scott, curiously, put his hand out, grasping the other two men on their shoulders and pulling them close, so that their faces were only inches apart, and so that he could whisper with a sudden, almost fierce intensity.
“I’ve been thinking, Tommy, Hugh . . .” he started slowly, making sure his soft words were crisp and clear, “there’s something we need to keep in mind about tonight.”
His words made Tommy pause, almost chilling him.
“What?” Hugh asked.
Tommy could hear Scott inhale deeply, as if the weight of what he was about to say bore down on him, creating a burden none of them had foreseen. “Men have died to bring about tonight,” he whispered. “Men have worked hard and then died hard to give others a chance at freedom. There were two men trapped, digging in a collapsed tunnel, right before I arrived here. . . .”
“That’s right,” Hugh chimed in quietly. “We even heard about it over in the other camp.”
Scott hesitated, catching more wind before he said as softly yet forcefully as he could: “We have to remember those men! We cannot screw this up for everyone heading out tonight! We have to be careful. . . . Very careful!”
“We have to find the truth,” Tommy bluntly replied.
He could just see Scott’s head nodding in agreement. “That’s right,” he said. “We have to find the truth. But we have to remember the cost. Others have died. There are some debts being paid tonight, and we have to keep that in mind, Tommy. Remember, when all is said and done, we are still officers in the air corps. We took oaths to defend our country. Not to defend me. That’s all I’m saying.”
Tommy swallowed hard. “I’ll remember,” he said. He felt as if everything he had to do that night had just been made far more difficult. The stakes are high, he told himself.
Hugh was silent for a second, before he whispered, “You know, Scott, you’re a bloody good soldier and a patriot, and you’re absolutely right, and all these bastards who’ve been lying and cheating probably don’t deserve what you’re saying even though you’re right. Now Tommy, you’re the navigator. . . .”
Tommy could see Scott’s abrupt wide grin.
“That’s right, Tommy. You chart the course. We’ll follow.”
There was nothing he could say. Unsure about anything except that all the answers lay somewhere in the darkness ahead of him, Tommy gently slid the bunk room door open, and stealthily began to move down the corridor, aware that his two companions were trailing a few steps behind. There was nothing in the air around them except black night and the crippling harsh fear of uncertainty.
They had maneuvered halfway down the barracks when a small shaft of light filtered through the cracks in the front door as the searchlight swept past, and for the smallest of seconds, Tommy caught sight of three figures huddled together. Then, just as quickly as the light was there, it exited, plunging the barracks into darkness again. But Tommy saw through the blackness what he expected; three men silently diving out into the ocean of night. He could not tell who they were, nor could he see how they were dressed, or what they carried. All he saw was the shape of movement, and he pushed ahead rapidly.
There was no need to say anything when they reached the end of the corridor and hunched down, waiting for the same moment when the light would slide past. Save for the sharpened breaths from the two men beside him, Tommy could hear nothing.
They did not have to wait long. The searchlight glow smacked the door, seemed to hesitate, then pushed on, carving away slices of darkness from the other huts. In that moment, Tommy reached up, grabbed the door handle, and pushed it open, diving out into the night as he had before, making fast for the lee of the hut and the shadows that lurked there. The two others were directly behind him, and when they all thrust themselves up against the wall of Hut 103, they were breathing much harder than they would have expected, given the modest distance they’d covered.
Tommy peered around, trying to find the three men who had exited before them, but he could not pick them out of the night. “Damn,” he whispered.
Hugh wiped his forehead. “I’m not sure I like being ass-end Charlie here tonight,” he spat, but his words were punctuated by a smile.
Tommy nodded, feeling a little lighter at hearing the Canadian’s brusque voice. “Ass-end Charlie” was the British fighter pilots’ inelegant description for the last man in a six-plane wing attack formation—the most dangerous and deadly position. The war had been almost a year old before fighter command ordered an alteration in the basic flying formation, switching to a V similar to the way the Germans flew into combat, instead of the elongated wing, which left the last man uncovered. No one ever watched the tail of ass-end Charlie, and dozens of Spitfire pilots had died in 1939, because the Germans flying Messerschmidts would simply sidle up behind, unseen, fire a burst, and then flee, before the wing could get turned to meet the threat.
“Ah, never mind,” Hugh added. “Where to now?”
Tommy strained his eyes to penetrate the night. It was clear, cold. The sky was lit with stars and a partial moon glowed above the distant line of trees, outlining the forms of the goons manning the machine-gun towers. The three men traveling ahead of them had disappeared.
“Maybe under the hut, like before, Tommy?” Scott whispered. “Maybe they went that way.”
Tommy shook his head and shivered at the thought. “No,” he said, welcoming the pitch black around them. “Around the front, then over to the side of 105. Follow me.”
Without waiting for a response, the three men bent over and raced forward, dodging the stairs into 103, passing along the edge of the open space and danger, then letting the narrow alley between the huts close in on them.
Just as they passed from the danger of the exposed front into the safety of the alley, Tommy heard a small thudding sound, followed by a whispered, but frantic curse. Without breaking his stride, as he dodged into the darkness, he saw the shape of a man a few dozen yards away, directly in front of Hut 105.
The man was scrambling, picking up a valise dropped in the dirt. He was bent over, moving frantically, grabbing at the small suitcase and a few indistinct items that had fallen out, then immediately sprinting ahead, disappearing from Tommy’s sight. Tommy realized instantly tha
t this was the third man in the trio moving ahead of them. The third man, who faced most of the danger.
As if to punctuate this threat, a searchlight swung over the spot where the man had dropped his suitcase only seconds before. The light seemed to dance about, swaying back and forth, almost as if it were only mildly curious. Then, after a few seconds, it shrugged and skipped on, moving ahead.
“You see that?” Lincoln Scott hissed.
Tommy nodded.
“You got an idea where they’re going?” Renaday asked.
“My guess is Hut 107,” Tommy said. “But we won’t know for sure until we get there.”
Dodging across the alley, covered by the blackness, the three men maneuvered to the front of the next hut. The air was still, soundless. It was so quiet that Tommy thought that every infinitesimal noise they made was magnified, trumpet-like, a klaxon noise of alarm. To move silently in a world absent all external noises is very difficult. There were no nearby city sounds of cars and buses or even the deep whomp-whomp-whomp of a distant bombing raid. Not even the joking voices of the goons in the towers or a bark from a Hundführer’s dog creased the night to distract or help conceal every footstep they made. For a moment, he wished the British would break into some rowdy song over in the northern compound. Anything to cover over the top of the modest noises they made.
“Okay,” Tommy whispered, “same drill as before, except this time, we’re going one at a time. Around the front and then into the shadow on the far side. I’m first, then Lincoln, and then you, Hugh. Nobody rush anything. Be careful. We’re a lot closer to the tower across the yard. It was their light that almost caught the other guy. They might have heard something and they may be looking this way. And there’s usually one of those damn dogs over by the front gate. Take your time and wait until you’re sure it’s safe.”
Hart's War Page 49
