"Killer!" He could not tell precisely where the word came from, but somewhere within the bubbling tide of men.
"Murderer!" Another voice chimed in.
A deep, rumbling noise started to come from the men who blocked their path. Words of anger and hatred mingled freely with epithets and catcalls. Whistles and booing supported the noises of rage, growing in frequency and intensity as the two fliers continued forward.
Tommy kept his eyes straight ahead, hoping that he would spot one of the senior officers, but did not. He noticed that Scott, jaw set with determination, had increased the pace slightly. For a moment, Tommy thought the two of them not unlike a ship racing headlong toward a rocky shoreline, oblivious to the wreck that awaited them.
"Goddamn murdering nigger!"
They were perhaps ten yards from the mass of men. He did not know whether the wall would open or not. At that second, he spotted several of the men who shared his own bunk room.
They were men he thought of as friends; not close ones, but friends nonetheless. They were men with whom he'd shared foodstuffs and books and the occasional reverie about life at home, shared moments of longing and desires and dreams and nightmares. He did not, in that instant, think they would harm him. He wasn't certain of this, of course, because he no longer was sure how they looked upon him. But he thought they might have some hesitation in their emotions, and so, with just the smallest bump shoulder to shoulder, against Scott, he shifted direction to head directly toward them.
He could hear Lincoln Scott's breathing. It was quick and short, small gasps of air snatched from the effort their pace demanded.
Other voices and insults reverberated around him, the words crossing the space between the fliers faster than his feet could carry him.
He heard: "We should settle this now!"
And worse, a chorus of assent.
He ignored the threats. In that second he suddenly recalled the wonderfully calm voice of his dead captain from Texas, steering the Lovely Lydia into yet another hailstorm of flak and death, and without raising his voice, speaking steadily over the bomber's intercom, saying, "Hell, boys, we ain't gonna let a little bit of trouble bother us none, are we?" And he thought that this was a storm that he was going to have to fly directly into the center of, keeping his eyes straight ahead, just as his old captain had done, even though the last storm had cost him his life and the lives of all the others in that plane, save one.
And so, without breaking stride. Tommy launched himself at the gathering of fliers. Linked invisibly but just as strongly as if they were roped together, he and Lincoln Scott tossed themselves at the men blocking their path.
The crowd seemed to waver. Tommy saw his roommates step back and to the side, creating a small F-like opening.
Into that breach, he and Scott sailed. They were enveloped immediately, the crowd sliding in behind them. But the men to their front made way, even if only slightly, just enough for them to continue forward.
The closeness of the men seemed to buffet them like winds. The voices around them quieted, the catcalls and epithets suddenly fading away, so that they struggled forward through the mass of men in an abrupt, eerie silence, one that was perhaps worse than the noise of the insults had been a few moments earlier. It seemed to Tommy that no one touched them, yet it was still difficult to step forward, like wading through fast-running water, where the current and power of the river pushed and tugged hard at his legs and chest.
And then, suddenly, they were through.
The last few men cleared from their path, and Tommy saw the route to the huts open wide, empty of men. It was like bursting in their plane from a dark and angry thunderhead into clear skies and safety.
Still in lockstep, marching in tandem. Tommy and Scott headed fast for Hut 101. Behind them, the crowd remained silent.
Scott sounded like a man who'd just boxed fifteen rounds.
Tommy realized his own short and wheezy breathing duplicated that of the black flier.
He did not know why he turned his head slightly, at that moment, but he did. Just a slight shift of the neck, and a gaze off to his right. And in that small glance, he caught a brief glimpse of Colonel MacNamara and Major Clark, standing just behind one of the grime-streaked windows of an adjacent hut, partially concealed and watching their progress across the compound grounds. Tommy was riveted with a sudden, almost uncontrollable outrage, directed at the two senior officers, for allowing their own express order to be contradicted.
"No threats… treat with courtesy…" that was what MacNamara had demanded in no uncertain terms. And then he'd witnessed the violation of that order. Tommy almost, in that second, turned and headed toward the two commanders, filled with instant indignation and a desire for confrontation.
But into the midst of that abrupt anger he heard another voice speaking to him, suggesting that perhaps he had just learned something important, something he should keep to himself.
And it was this voice that he decided to follow.
Tommy turned away, although he made absolutely certain that MacNamara and Clark had seen that he'd seen them spying on their progress from behind the window. With the black flier at his side, he climbed the wooden planks into Hut 101.
Lincoln Scott spoke first.
"Well," he said quietly, "it seems bleak."
At first Tommy wasn't certain whether the fighter pilot was speaking about the case or the room, because the same could have been said of both. Everything accumulated by the other kriegies who'd once shared the space had been removed. All that remained was a single wooden bunk with a dirty blue ticking pallet stuffed with straw. A solitary thin gray blanket had been left behind on the top. Lincoln Scott tossed his remaining blankets and clothing down on the bed. The overhead electric bulb burned, although the room was filled with the remaining diffuse light of afternoon. His makeshift table and storage area were at the head of the bed. The flier looked inside and saw that his two books and store of foodstuffs were all intact. The only thing missing was the handmade frying pan, which had inexplicably disappeared.
"It could be worse," Tommy said. This time it was Scott's turn to look at him, trying to guess whether it was the accommodations or the case that he was speaking of.
Both men were quiet for an instant, before Tommy asked:
"So, when you went to bed at night, after sneaking around to the toilet, where did you put your flight jacket?"
Scott gestured to the side of the door.
"Right there," he said.
"Everybody had a nail. Everybody hung their jackets there. They were easy to grab when the sirens or the whistles went off." Scott sat down heavily on the bed, picking up the Bible.
Tommy went over to the wall.
The nails were missing. There were eight small holes in the wooden wallboard arranged in groups of two, and spaced a couple of feet apart, but that was all.
"Where did Vic hang his coat?"
"Next to mine, actually. We were the last two in line.