"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 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 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 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-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."