Tommy Hart shivered alone in the barren cement cooler cell for nearly a fortnight, the wounds in his hand worsening with every hour. His fingers swelled sausagelike with a fierce infection. The skin of his forearm was streaked with yellow-green marks, and he spent most of his hours leaning beside the cold wooden door, clutching his clublike hand to his chest. Searing pain was nearly constant and he weakened with every passing minute, frequently tumbling into a near-delirium that seemed to come and go as it pleased. The other men, in the adjacent cells, could hear him deep in the nighttime talking erratically to people long dead or far distant, and they would shout out, trying to seize Tommy's attention, drag him back to some sort of reality, as if stealing him away from hallucination was medicinal.
He was only vaguely aware that every day the other men screamed imprecations at any German guard who ventured into the cooler building, carrying black kriegsbrot and water for the prisoners, demanding that Tommy be taken to a hospital.
The Germans who were in charge of delivering the meager rations, or emptying the waste buckets from the cells, ignored these demands, wearing only stoic refusals to comprehend on their faces.
Only one of their captors, in the midst of the second week, showed any concern. That, of course, was Fritz Number One, who showed up shortly after the morning Appell, took a single look at Tommy's horrendous fist, and had Fenelli brought over from his nearby cell.
The medic from Cleveland had pulled back Tommy's fingers gently, shaking his head. He cleaned Tommy's face and wounds as best he could with a dry rag and clear water.
"It will be gangrenous within days," he told Fritz Number One, whispering furiously, when they returned to the hallway beyond Tommy's earshot.
"Sulfonamide. Penicillin. And surgery, to clean out the infected tissue. For Christ's sake, Fritz, tell the commandant that Tommy will die without help. And soon."
"I will speak with the commandant," the ferret had promised.
"It's on your head," Fenelli had said.
"And on Von Reiter's too, and trust me, there are folks here who won't forget what happens to Tommy Hart!"
"I will tell the commandant," Fritz Number One had repeated.
"Tell him! Don't wait. Tell him right now," Fenelli had half-demanded, half-begged.
But nothing happened for several more days.
Trapped in pain, fantasy, delirium, and cold, Tommy seemed to be entering some sort of odd netherworld. Sometimes he dreamed that he was still in the tunnel, and then he would awaken, crying out in fear.
Other times, the pain grew so great that it seemed to rocket him to a different plane of existence, where all he could see and feel were the memories of home that had served him so well in the months he'd been a prisoner in Stalag Luft Thirteen. It was this state that Tommy longed for, because as he envisioned the sky above the Green Mountains beyond the door to his Vermont home, the pain fled, if only briefly, and he was able to rest.
On the sixteenth day in the cooler, he could no longer eat.
His throat was too dry. Almost the entirety of his strength had evaporated. He was able to manage a few sips of water, but that was all.
The others called to him, tried to get him to join them in song, or conversation, anything to keep him alert, but he was unable. Whatever resources he had left, he used to battle the hurt emanating in red-hot surges up into his body. He was filthy, sweat and dirt covered him, and he was afraid he was going to lose control over his bowels. He thought, in one of the few rational moments that managed to overcome the delirium threatening to surround him completely, that it seemed a particularly stupid and silly way to finally die, bitten by a Gestapo officer, when he'd been through so much, and already been saved so many times.
Into this reverie came voices, which he ignored, because by this time he was forever hearing voices, and most of these belonged to people long dead. Even Visser had spoken to him angrily once, but Tommy had arrogantly sneered at this ghost.
It was, however, not a fantasy when the cell door was thrust open.
Tommy looked up through cloudy, bleary eyes, and saw the unmistakable form of Hugh Renaday lurching through the entranceway.
"Bloody hell!" Hugh blurted, as he bent toward Tommy, who was unable to rise from his spot on the floor.
Tommy smiled through the hurt.
"Hugh. I thought you'd…"
"Bought it? Damn close. That bastard Visser ordered me shot. Lucky thing Von Reiter wouldn't go along with it. So I'm still alive and kicking, my friend."
"What about the others?"
"What others?"
"The men who got out…"
Hugh grinned.
"The bloody Krauts caught ten guys wandering around in the forest lost as newborn babes that morning. Another five men were arrested at the station, waiting for the second train through. Seems like there was some problem with the tickets that got forged and the Gestapo didn't have any trouble picking them out of the crowds. But three guys, the first three up and out of the tunnel, are still missing and unaccounted for. Their tickets must have been acceptable and their train pulled in and took off before the alarm was sounded. Lots of rumors around, but nothing definite."
Tommy nodded.
"That's good," he said.
"They were lucky."
"Luck? Hell, who knows? Oh, and our boy Fritz Number One, he got a medal and a raise. He's now a sergeant, and he gets to wear one of those shiny black crosses around his neck.
He's been strutting around the camp like the cock o' the roost, as you can imagine."
Hugh reached down and thrust his hands around Tommy, lifting him as he spoke.
"Come on now, counselor. We're getting you out of here," he said.
"Scott and Fenelli?"
"They're getting out, too."
Tommy smiled.
"Good, good," he said weakly.
"Hugh, my hand…"
The Canadian clenched his teeth.
"Hang in there, lad.
We're going to get you some help."
The cooler corridor was crowded with rifle-bearing German guards. Hugh half-carried Tommy from the cell, where Lincoln Scott reached over and wordlessly took half the burden of Tommy's weight. Tommy felt skeletal, almost rubber-legged, when he tried to walk, as if each joint in his body had somehow worked itself loose and no longer held him together.
Fenelli was cursing under his breath, leading them out of the cooler block into the sunlight outside. All the men blinked at the sudden blast of brightness, and inhaled the warm air greedily. There were more Germans waiting for them, as well as Colonel MacNamara and Major
Clark, who paced back and forth in front of the cooler building, impatiently.
"How is he?" Colonel MacNamara instantly demanded of Fenelli.
"He's hurting bad," the medic replied.
MacNamara nodded, then pointed toward the camp administration building.
"Right in there," he said.
"Von Reiter is waiting."
With Tommy at the center of the odd procession, the men were ushered directly into Commandant Von Reiter's office.
The German officer was seated behind his immaculate desk as usual, but he rose when they entered. He straightened his uniform self-consciously and clicked his heels together, bowing slightly at the waist. A studied, tight performance.
The kriegies, with the exception of Tommy all saluted.
Von Reiter gestured toward a chair, and Tommy was helped into it by
Fenelli and Lincoln Scott, who stood directly behind him.
The German cleared his throat and stared again at Tommy's disfigured hand.
"You do poorly. Lieutenant Hart?" he asked.
Tommy laughed through all the hurt.
"Had better days," he whispered hoarsely.
Colonel MacNamara stepped forward, speaking sharply, his back rigid, his face set with furious demand.
"I want this man attended to immediately! His wounds are serious, as you can easily see. Under the Geneva Convention, he is entitled to proper medical care! I warn you, commandant, this situation is of critical importance. We will tolerate no further delays " Von Reiter held up his palm.
"Lieutenant Hart will receive the best of care. I have made the necessary arrangements. I apologize for the delay, but these are delicate matters."
"Well, every minute we delay further endangers this officer!"
Von Reiter nodded.
"Yes, yes, colonel, this I can see. But much has happened and while we are eager to be efficient, there are some questions that remain. Mr.
Hart? You are perhaps capable of answering a few questions? So that the paperwork I send to my superiors will be complete."
Tommy tried to shrug.
"He doesn't have to answer anything," Major Clark blurted.
Von Reiter sighed.
"Major, please, indulge me. You have not heard the questions yet."
The commandant allowed a second or two of silence to penetrate the room. Then he turned back to Tommy Hart.
"Lieutenant, do you know who murdered Captain Vincent Bedford of the United States Army Air Corps?"
Tommy smiled. He nodded and replied weakly, "Yes, I do."
"It was not Lieutenant Scott?"
Before Tommy could reply to this. Colonel MacNamara interrupted.
"Commandant Von Reiter! As you are well aware, Lieutenant Scott was acquitted of this crime by the unanimous verdict of a military tribunal sitting in court-martial!
While Lieutenant Scott was imprisoned in your cooler, the tribunal concluded that there was not evidence beyond and to the exclusion of a reasonable doubt concerning this killing, and Lieutenant Scott was declared not guilty! I fail to see why " "Please, colonel, I have not completed my examination."
"Acquitted?" Scott asked, with a short laugh.
"It might have been nice if someone had told me."
"The camp knows," MacNamara said.
"We made an announcement at Appell the morning after the escape."
Scott smiled. He placed a hand on Tommy's shoulder and gave him a congratulatory squeeze.
MacNamara quieted. Von Reiter paused, looked from face to face, then continued to ask questions.
"Lieutenant Hart, let me put this another way. Your investigation determined the identity of the real killer, did it not?"
"It did," Tommy answered as strongly as possible.
Von Reiter smiled.
"I thought it would." The German shook his head slightly.
"I thought some people might have underestimated you, Mr. Hart. But that, of course, concerns us little now. To continue, lieutenant, this murderer… he was not a member of the Luftwaffe, was he?"
"No sir."
"Nor was he a member of any other German armed force, correct?"
"That is correct, commandant," Tommy replied.
"In other words. Captain Bedford's assassin was a member of the Allied forces imprisoned here at Stalag Luft Thirteen?"
"Yes."
"You will be willing to sign a statement confirming this fact?"
"As long as I am not required to identify the actual murderer."
Von Reiter laughed briefly.
"That, of course, lieutenant, is a matter for your own authorities to discuss with you at some later, more convenient point. My superiors have declared that the purposes of the Luftwaffe will be served by merely swearing that the killer does not belong to our service, thereby relieving us from any lingering culpability in this unfortunate matter.
You can do that?"
"Yes, commandant."
Von Reiter seemed pleased.
"I have taken the liberty of having this document prepared. You will have to have trust that the German language reflects what I have just stated and you have confirmed. Unless your own officers would like to supply a translator…"
Von Reiter grinned wickedly at MacNamara, before adding, "But I suspect they would not wish to do that, for they prefer that we do not know the names of the American officers fluent in German."
"I'll take your word for it," Tommy whispered.
"I thought as much," Von Reiter said. He retreated behind his desk, opened the center drawer, and removed a piece of paper with typing on it. There was a large embossed black eagle at the head of the page.
The German gestured at the spot where Tommy's name was already written in. He offered Tommy a fountain pen. Struggling with the pain that constantly sent rivets of hot agony through his arm and into his chest.
Tommy bent forward and signed the paper. It was exhausting.
Von Reiter took the paper, held it up, examined it, blew once on the ink to dry it, then returned the paper to his desk drawer. Then he barked out a quick command in German and a side door immediately opened. Fritz Number One entered and saluted.
"Sergeant! Bring Herr Blucher, please. And that other item that we discussed."
Von Reiter turned to Tommy as the mole like Swiss entered the office.
He wore the same black homburg and carried the same worn black briefcase that he'd had with him on the day Phillip Pryce had been turned over to his care. Von Reiter smiled again.
"This, Mr. Hart, is Herr Blucher of the Swiss Red Cross. He will accompany you to a hospital in his country. Alas, German facilities are inadequate, I believe, for your needs at this time." The German commandant lifted an eyebrow.
"You have met Herr Blucher, I understand? And mistakenly assumed him to be a member of our esteemed state police? Gestapo? I assure you, he is not."
Von Reiter hesitated again, before adding, "And he carries with him a small gift from a friend of yours, Mr. Hart. Wing Commander Pryce managed to send these items through diplomatic courier. I believe he obtained them at the hospital in Geneva where he currently resides.
Lieutenant Fenelli, perhaps your assistance at this point?"
"Phillip!" Hugh Renaday burst out.
"How did he learn…"
Von Reiter shrugged.
"We are not beasts, flying officer.
At least not all of us. Lieutenant Fenelli, if you would be so kind…"
Fenelli stepped forward, and Herr Blucher handed him a small parcel wrapped in string and brown paper. The medic from Cleveland swiftly tore it open and gasped out a sudden, heartfelt, "Jesus Christ! Thank
God, thank God…"
He turned and the others could see that inside the parcel was sulfa, disinfectant, sterile wraps, several syringes, and a half-dozen precious vials of penicillin and a similar amount of morphine "Penicillin, first!" Fenelli said. Without hesitating, he was filling a syringe.
"As much as possible, as fast as possible."
He rolled Tommy's sleeve up and cleared a spot near the shoulder. He plunged the needle in, whispering, "Fight hard, Tommy Hart. Now you got a real chance."
Tommy leaned his head back. For the barest of moments, he started to allow himself to believe he might live.
Fenelli continued to talk, seemingly to himself, but to all the others in the room, as well. "… Now some morphine for the trip. Kill that pain for a bit. That sounds pretty good, huh, Von Reiter held up his hand again.
"Ah, lieutenant, before you administer the morphine, please, one more moment."
Fenelli stopped in the midst of filling the syringe.
Von Reiter looked over toward Fritz Number One, who had come through the door and was carrying a makeshift box.
The German commandant smiled one more time. But it was the coldest of smiles, one that spoke of many hard years spent in the harsh service of war.
"I have two gifts for you, Mr. Hart," he said quietly.
"So that you may remember these days."
He reached inside his tunic pocket and carefully removed a handkerchief. It was the bloodstained silk handkerchief with which Tommy had first bound his hand in the moments after his battle with Visser.
"This is yours, I believe, Mr. Hart. Undoubtedly an important gift from a woman friend back in the States, and I suspect of some sentimental value…"
The German smoothed the brilliant white handkerchief out flat on the desktop in front of him. The crimson stains had dried into deep maroon colors.
"And so, I return what is yours, lieutenant. But I do note the odd coincidence that your lady friend back home seems to possess the precise identical initials as my former second-in-command, Hauptmann Heinrich Albert Visser, who died so bravely in service of his country."
Tommy could see the HAVE embossed in flowing script in a corner of the handkerchief. He looked up at Von Reiter, who shook his head.
"War, of course, is a series of the most perplexing coincidences."
Von Reiter sighed and picked up the silk square, folding it carefully three times, and handing it across the desktop to Tommy Hart.
"I have one other gift for you, Mr. Hart, and then Mr.
Fenelli can feel free to administer the morphia, which I know will provide you with great relief on your journey to Switzerland."
Von Reiter gestured sharply toward Fritz Number One, who stepped forward and placed the box he held at his waist at Tommy's feet.
"What the hell are those?" Colonel MacNamara burst out.
"Looks like a bunch of damn hats!"
Von Reiter let his awful smile curl around the corners of his mouth before replying.
"You are indeed correct, colonel.
They are hats. Some wool caps, some fur hats, some are mere cloth head coverings. There are many different shapes and sizes and styles. They have but one detail in common. Like the handkerchief that I have already returned, they are marked with blood, and thus will need to be cleaned before they can ever hope to be used again."
"Hats?" the Senior American Officer asked.
"What is Hart to do with a bunch of hats? Especially bloody ones."
"They are Russian hats, colonel."
"Well," MacNamara continued, "I don't see why-" But Von Reiter coolly interrupted him.
"Eighty-four hats, colonel. Eighty-four Russian hats."
The commandant fumed to Tommy Hart.
"Sixteen men went to the firing squad bareheaded. Lieutenant Then Von Reiter shrugged.
"This surprised me immensely," he added.
"I thought that for the cold-blooded murder of a highly decorated
German officer, the Gestapo would shoot the entire work camp. Each and every Russian. But to my astonishment, they selected only one hundred men to kill in retaliation."
Von Reiter walked back around the desk, and seated himself.
He allowed a moment of quiet to fill the room before he nodded and gestured to Fenelli, who held the morphine needle ready.
"Go with Herr Blucher, Mr. Hart. Leave here and take all your secrets with you. His car will take you to the train. The train will carry you to Switzerland, where your friend Wing Commander Pryce, a hospital, and surgeons all await your arrival.
Do not think about those one hundred men. Not for another moment.
Wipe' them from your memory. Instead, you should endeavor to survive.
Return home to Vermont. Live to be old and rich and happy. Lieutenant
Hart. And when your grandchildren come to your side one day to ask you about the war, you can say that you passed it most uneventfully, reading legal textbooks, inside a German prisoner-of-war camp named Stalag Luft Thirteen."
Tommy had no words left to reply with. He was only peripherally aware of the needle penetrating his flesh. But the sweet dulling sensation of morphine sweeping through him was like drinking from the greatest and freshest clear, cold mountain stream of home.