The dog began to bark over and over, frantically, its voice shattering the night as it strained to get forward. He heard the Hundführer chamber a round in his rifle, and, in the same second, a searchlight from the closest tower switched on with an electric thud. It creased the darkness, blistering him with sudden brightness.
He struggled quickly to his feet, his leg pulsating in objection, immediately lifting his hands far above his head. Hugh cried out desperately, “Nicht schiessen! Nicht schiessen!” as he stood alone in the glare of exposure. He took a deep breath, and whispered to himself, “Don’t shoot . . .” Then he closed his eyes, and thought of home and how, in the early days of summer, dawn always seemed to sweep across the Canadian plains with a purple-red clear intensity, as if overwhelmed, excited, and undeniably joyous at the idea of another day. For a single microsecond he felt a complete and ineffable sadness that he would never be awake to see those moments again. Then, crowded into this final thought, he managed to wish Tommy and Lincoln good luck.
Hugh squeezed his eyes tight against the last second about to arrive for him and heard his own voice, strangely distant and oddly unafraid, try one more time: “Nicht schiessen!” he shouted. He wished, in that moment, that he could have found a braver, more glorious, and less lonely place to die. Then he quieted, hands raised high in the air, and simply waited with surprising patience to be murdered.
In the undiluted terror that had overtaken him, twenty feet beneath the surface, Tommy could no longer tell whether it was stifling hot or bone-chilling cold. He shivered with every inch forward, and salty sweat clogged his eyes. Every foot he traveled seemed to take the last of his ebbing strength, rob the final breath he could pry, wheezing, from the air of the tunnel that threatened to entomb him. More than once he’d heard an ominous creak of flimsy wood shoring up the walls and ceiling, and more than once dusty rivulets of dirt had streamed down onto his head and neck.
The darkness that surrounded him was marred only by the candles held by each man he worked his way past. The kriegies in the tunnel were astonished at his presence, but still they moved aside as best they could, pushing themselves dangerously against the wall of the tunnel, giving him precious inches of empty space to squeeze past. Every man he met held their breath as he scraped by, knowing that even taking a single extra breath might bring the roof down on all of them. There were a few curses, but no objections. The entire tunnel was filled with fear, apprehension, and danger, and to the men waiting in the darkness, Tommy’s steady trip to the front was merely another awful anxiety on what they dreamed would be the road to freedom.
He recognized several of the men—two from his own hut, who grunted an acknowledgment as he crept past, and a third who’d once borrowed one of his law texts, desperate for anything to read to break the monotony of a snowy winter week. There was a man with whom he’d once had a funny conversation in the yard, sharing cigarettes and ersatz coffee, a wiry, grinning fellow from Princeton who had insulted Harvard most wildly and hilariously, but who had readily agreed that any Yale man was probably not only a shirker and a coward but likely to be fighting for the Germans or the Japanese, anyway. The Princeton man had pushed back against the wall, and gasped when some dirt from the roof streamed onto both their heads. Then he’d urged Tommy on with a whispered, “Get what you need, Tommy.” This alone had encouraged Tommy to travel another half-dozen feet forward, stopping only to seize the dirt-filled bucket from the man ahead, and pass it back to Princeton, behind him.
The muscles in his arms and legs screamed pain and fatigue at him. His neck and back felt as if they were being hammered by the red-hot tongs of a blacksmith. For an instant, he lowered his head, listening to the yawing sound of the wooden supports, and thought that nothing in the world was more exhausting than fear. No race. No fight. No battle. Fear always ran faster, hit harder, and fought longer.
He dragged himself forward, struggling past each of the designated escapees. He was no longer able to tell whether he’d been crawling for minutes or hours. He thought he would never get out of the tunnel, and then imagined that it was like some particularly terrifying dream from which he was destined never to awaken.
He pushed on, gasping for air.
Tommy had counted the men in the tunnel, and knew that he was squeezing past Number Three, a bankerly type wearing wire-rim glasses streaked with moisture, whom Tommy presumed was the chief camp document forger. The man twisted aside, grunting, wordless, as Tommy maneuvered past him. For the first time, Tommy could hear the sounds of digging coming from up ahead. He guessed there were two men, working in a small space not unlike the anteroom where he’d found the pilot from New York. The difference would be that they would have no abundance of crate boards to shore things up. Instead, they would be scraping the dirt from above their heads, packing it in the empty buckets and passing it back. There would be no need for an elaborate, concealed exit, the way the entrance was so cleverly hidden back in the privy in Hut 107. The exit would be the smallest possible hole a kriegie could worm through.
Tommy thrust himself toward the sound of the digging. There must have been two candles in that space, because he could just make out a flickering, indistinct shape. He crept forward, still without a concrete plan beyond confrontation, thinking hard to himself that what he needed to know was just at the edge of his reach.
He knew only that he wanted to reach the end. The end of the tunnel. The end of the case. The end of everything that had happened. He could feel panic surging through him, mingling freely with confusion and desire. Driven by the difficult twins of fear and fury, he pushed himself the final few feet, almost popping into the anteroom to the escape’s exit.
Above him, the tunnel rose sharply toward the surface.
A makeshift ladder built from scraps of wood was thrust against the side of the shaft. Near the top of the ladder, one man hacked at the remaining clods of dirt. Midway down, a second man caught the earth as it fell from beneath the pickax, collecting it in the ubiquitous bucket. Both men were nearly naked, their bodies glistening in the candlelight with sweat and streaks of dirt that made them seem prehistoric, terrifying. Thrust to the side of the anteroom were two small valises and a pile of clothes they would change into as soon as they burst through to the air. Their escape kit.
From above him, the two men hesitated, looking down in surprise.
Tommy could not make out the face of Number One, the man with the pickax. But his eyes met Number Two.
“Hart!” the man whispered sharply.
Tommy struggled halfway to his feet in the tight, narrow space, ending on his knees like some supplicant in a church looking up at the figure on the Cross. He peered through the flickering light, and after a single, long silent moment, recognized Number Two. “You killed him, didn’t you, Murphy?” Tommy said harshly. “He was your friend and your roommate and you killed him, didn’t you?”
At first, the lieutenant from Springfield didn’t reply. His face wore an eerie look of astonishment and surprise, and then slowly dissolved into recognition, followed by rage.
But what he said was, “No, I didn’t. I didn’t kill him.”
Then he hesitated for a half-second, just long enough for the denial to toss Tommy wildly into confusion, and then he threw himself down on Tommy, grunting savagely, his dirty, strong hands reaching inexorably for Tommy’s throat.
At the tail of the tunnel in Hut 107, Major Clark glanced down at his wristwatch, shook his head, then turned his stare toward Lincoln Scott. “Now we’re behind,” he said bitterly. “Every minute is critical, lieutenant. In another couple of minutes, the entire escape will be in jeopardy.”
Scott stood by the entrance to the tunnel, almost straddling it, like a policeman guarding a door. He returned the major’s glare with a singularly cold gaze of his own.
“I do not understand you, major,” he said. “You would allow Vic’s killers to go free and the Germans to shoot me. What sort of man are you?”
Clark stared, col
dly, harshly, at the black airman.
“You’re the killer, Scott,” he said. “The evidence has always been clear-cut and unequivocal. It has nothing to do with this escape tonight.”
“You lie,” Scott replied.
Clark shook his head, answering in a low, awful voice, with a small and terrible smile. “Do I, now? No, that’s where you’re wrong. I know nothing of any conspiracy to set you up as the killer. I know nothing of any other man’s participation in the crime. I know nothing that would support your ridiculous story. I know only that an officer was killed, an officer you made no secret of hating. I know that this officer had previously provided valuable assistance to prior tunnel escape efforts, to wit, acquiring documents for forgers to work on, German cash, and other items of importance. And I know that the German authorities were very interested in this murder. More interested than they had a right to be. And because of this interest, I know that this particular tunnel, our best chance to get some men out, was severely threatened because had they decided to hunt for the killer and the evidence to support charges, they would have torn the camp completely apart, probably exposing this escape attempt in the process. So the only thing you are possibly correct about, lieutenant, is that as chief of escape security, I was genuinely pleased that you presented yourself covered with blood and guilt at a critical moment. And I have been pleased that your little trial and your little conviction and your little execution, which I’m certain is to follow quite quickly, has proven to be such a wonderful distraction for the Krauts.”
“You don’t know about those men at the front of the tunnel?” Scott asked, almost incredulous at the venom served in his direction.
Major Clark shook his head. “Not only do I not know, I don’t want to know. The obviousness of your guilt has been very helpful.”
“You would shoot an innocent man to protect your tunnel?”
The major grinned again. “Of course. And so would you, if you were in my position. So would any officer in charge. Men are sacrificed in war all the time, Scott. So you die and we protect a larger good. Why is that so strange for you to understand?”
Scott did not reply. He wondered, in that second, why he was not filled with outrage, filled with fury. Instead, he looked over at the major and felt nothing but contempt, but it was the most curious sort of contempt, for a part of him understood the precise truth in what the man had said. It was an evil truth and a terrible one, but a truth of war nonetheless. He hated that, but oddly, accepted it.
Scott looked back into the tunnel shaft.
Fenelli spoke then. “Man, I wonder what’s taking him so long?” The would-be doctor was perched by the tunnel entrance, balancing, craning forward to hear something other than the steady whoosh-whoosh of the homemade bellows.
The black flier swallowed hard. His own throat was dry. In that moment he realized that he’d allowed a terrified man, the only man who’d really befriended him, to struggle into the darkness alone only because he was so eager to live. He thought that all his own proud words about willingness to die and sacrifice and taking a stand and dignity had abruptly been proven hollow by the simple act of letting Tommy crawl into that tunnel searching for the truth necessary to set him free. Tommy had not made any of the same fine and brave speeches that he had made, but had quietly faced down his own terrors and was sacrificing himself. Too dangerous. Too uncertain, Scott thought suddenly. It was a trip that Scott suddenly realized he should never have allowed Tommy to take on his behalf.
But he had no idea what to do, other than stand guard and wait. And hope.
He looked back at Major Clark. Then he spoke to the smug and pretentious officer with an unbridled cold hatred: “Tommy Hart doesn’t deserve to die, major. And if he doesn’t come back out of that tunnel, well, I’m going to hold you personally responsible, and then trust me: There won’t be any goddamn uncertainty at all about the next murder charge I face.”
Clark took a short step back, as if he’d been slapped across the cheek. His own face was set in an unruly combination of fear and fury. Neither emotion was particularly well hidden. He glanced over at Fenelli and choked out a few words.
“You heard that threat, didn’t you, lieutenant?”
Fenelli grinned. “I didn’t hear a threat, major. What I heard was a promise. Or maybe just a statement of fact. Kinda like saying the sun’s gonna come up tomorrow. Count on it. And I don’t think you’ve got even the slightest understanding why they’re different. And you know what else occurs to me, right now? I’m thinking it might be a real good thing for you and your immediate future if Tommy gets back here safe and sound pretty damn fast.”
Major Clark did not reply to this. Nervously, he, too, stared toward the tunnel entrance, which yawned silently in front of them. After a moment, he said to everyone and no one, “We’re running out of time.”
To his astonishment, the Hundführer did not immediately shoot him. Nor did the tower guards who put his chest in the crosshairs of the thirty-caliber machine gun they manned.
Hugh Renaday stood motionless, arms lifted high, almost suspended in a single shaft of light. He was blinded by the searchlight’s glare, and he blinked hard, trying to peer past the cone of brightness into the night beyond and the German soldiers he could hear calling to one another. He allowed himself a small measure of relief: No general alarm had been sounded. And, so far, he had not been shot, which also would have triggered a campwide alert.
Behind him, he heard the creaking sound of the compound’s main gate swinging open, followed by two pairs of footsteps pounding across the assembly yard toward where he remained standing. Within a few seconds, two helmeted goons, their rifles at the ready, lurched into the spotlight, like actors joining a play in progress on the stage. “Raus! Raus!” one of the goons blurted out. “Follow! Schnell!” The second goon quickly patted Hugh down, then stepped back, prodding him in the center of the back with the barrel of his rifle.
“Just out taking in a little of the fine spring German air,” Hugh said. “Can’t exactly see what you chaps believe is the problem. . . .”
The goons did not reply, but one man thrust his gun barrel into the small of his back with a little more vigor. Hugh limped forward, the pain renewed in his knee, deep core-striking bolts of agony. He bit down hard on his lip and tried to hide the limp as best he could, swinging the bad leg forward.
“Really,” he said briskly, “can’t see precisely what all the fuss is about. . . .”
“Raus,” the goon answered glumly, now pushing the limping man forward with his rifle butt.
Hugh gritted his teeth and, dragging his leg, followed close. Behind him, the searchlight shut off with a thud, and it took several seconds for the Canadian’s eyes to adjust again to the darkness. Each of those seconds was punctuated with another shove from the guard. For a moment, he wondered whether the Krauts meant to shoot him in privacy, somewhere where his body wouldn’t be on display for all the other kriegies. He thought this very possible, given the sensitivity to the trial and the high-running emotions in the camp. But the pain that was racing through his leg prevented him from much further speculation. Whatever was going to happen would happen, he told himself, although it was with some relief that he realized the two guards were heading toward the primary administration building. He could see a single light flick on inside the low, flat house, almost as if in greeting.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and the goon shoved Hugh again, a little harder, and Hugh stumbled forward, almost falling on the front steps. “Curb your enthusiasm, you bastard,” he muttered as he regained his balance. The German gestured, and Hugh mounted the stairs as rapidly as his leg would permit.
The front door swung open for him, and in the weak light emanating from the interior, Hugh made out the unmistakable form of Fritz Number One, holding the door. The ferret seemed surprised when he recognized the Canadian.
“Mr. Renaday,” Fritz whispered. “Whatever are you doing? You are most fortunate you were
not shot!” The ferret kept his voice low, concealed.
“Thank you, Fritz,” Hugh answered quietly, but with a half-smile, as he stepped inside the administration building. “I hope to bloody well stay that way. Unshot.”
“This could prove to be difficult,” Fritz Number One said in reply. And in the same second, Hugh saw a disheveled and clearly dangerously angry Hauptmann Heinrich Visser sitting at the side of a single desk, reaching for one of his ever-present brown cigarettes.
Tommy blocked the first assault with his forearm, slamming Murphy across the face. The lieutenant from Springfield grunted, and pushed Tommy back savagely against the dirt wall of the anteroom. Tommy could feel sandy grit tumbling down his shirt collar as Murphy’s fingers clawed at him. He was able to wedge his left arm up under his attacker’s neck, forcing the man’s head back, and then he rocked him hard against the opposite wall.
Murphy replied, getting his right hand free and landing a punch to Tommy’s cheek, cutting it, so that blood immediately started to trickle down, mingling with dirt and sweat. The two men twisted together in the narrow confines of the tunnel, kicking, pushing, trying to gain some sort of advantage, fighting in a ring that provided none to either man.
Tommy was only vaguely aware of the third man, higher on the ladder, Number One on the escape list, who still held a pickax in his hands. Murphy threw Tommy back, snarling, and Tommy managed to throw a short uppercut into his jaw, hard enough so that Murphy shot backward momentarily. It was a fight without room, as if a dog and cat had been dropped into a single burlap bag together, and tore at each other in that impossible place, neither able to use whatever advantages or cunning Nature had designed for them. Tommy and Murphy ricocheted back and forth, slamming the wall, muscle against muscle, scratching, clawing, throwing wild fists, kicking, punching, trying to find some means of gaining the upper hand. Shadows and darkness slithered like snakes around them.
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