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.