Hart’s War

"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, coldly, 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 tu

More interested than they had a right to be. And because of this interest, I know that this particular tu

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 tu

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 i

The major gri

"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 tu

Fenelli spoke then.

"Man, I wonder what's taking him so long?" The would-be doctor was perched by the tu

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 tu

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 tu

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 gri

"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 go

Major Clark did not reply to this. Nervously, he, too, stared toward the tu

To his astonishment, the Hundfuhrer did not immediately shoot him. Nor did the tower guards who put his chest in the crosshairs of the thirty-caliber machine gun they ma

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 camp wide 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! SchnellF 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-ru