No one truly thought the goons would open fire on the massed airmen.
But no one was ever completely certain of this.
The camp commandant, trailed by a pair of aides who walked gingerly through the mud in their polished riding boots, have into view, which prompted some whistles and catcalls, studiously ignored by Von Reiter.
Without a word to the SAO, the commandant addressed the formations loudly.
"We will count now. Then you are dismissed."
He paused, then added.
"The count, it will be two men short! Idiocy!"
The airmen remained silent, standing at attention.
"This is the third tunnel in the past year!" Von Reiter continued.
"But it is the first tunnel to cost men their lives!" The commandant was shouting, his voice infected with frustration.
"Further escape attempts will not be tolerated!"
He paused, then stared across at the men. He lifted a bony finger and pointed like a wizened schoolteacher at an unruly class.
"There has never been a successful escape from my camp!
Never! And there will be none!"
He paused, his eyes sweeping over the assembled kriegies.
"You have been warned," he concluded.
In the momentary silence that swept across the formations of men,
Colonel MacNamara stepped forward. His own voice carried the same weight of command as Von Reiter's. His spine was rigid, his posture a portrait of military perfection.
That his uniform was frayed and ragged seemed oddly to underscore his taut bearing.
"I would like to take this opportunity to remind the Oberst that it is the sworn duty of every officer to attempt to escape from the enemy."
Von Reiter held up his hand, cutting off the colonel.
"Do not speak to me of duty," he said.
"Escape is verboten "This duty, this requirement, is no different for the Luftwaffe airmen being held by our side," MacNamara loudly added.
"And if a Luftwaffe flier died in his attempt, he would be buried by his own comrades, with full military honors!"
Von Reiter frowned, started to reply, then stopped. He nodded his head, just slightly. The two men stared hard at each other, as if struggling over something between them. A tug-of-war of wills.
Then the commandant gestured for the SAO to accompany him, and he turned his back on the gathered men. The two senior officers disappeared from the kriegies' sight, marching stride for stride in the direction of the main gate, which led to the camp offices. Instantly, ferrets appeared at the head of each block formation, and the airmen began the familiar and laborious process of being counted. Midway through the roll call the kriegies heard the first deep, thudding explosion, as German sappers placed charges along the length of the collapsed tunnel, filling it with more of the sandy yellow dirt that had choked the life from the two tunnel men. Tommy Hart thought there was something wrong, or perhaps unfair, in enlisting to fly in the clean, clear air, no matter how deadly it could be, only to die alone and suffocating, trapped eight feet beneath the earth. He did not say this out loud.
The tunnel coming out from 109 had been concealed underneath a washroom sink, and after going straight down, had taken a sharp right turn, heading for the wire. Of the forty huts in the compound, 109 was second closest to the perimeter. To reach the safety of the dark line of tall fir trees that signaled the edge of a deep Bavarian forest, the tunnel diggers were required to burrow more than a hundred yards through the dirt.
The tunnel had made it less than a third of the way. Of the three tunnels dug during the past year, it had traveled the farthest, and had the highest of hopes attached to it.
Like virtually every other kriegie in the camp, by midday Tommy Hart had walked over to the deadline and stared out at the remains of the tunnel, trying to imagine what it must have been like for the two men trapped beneath the surface. The sapper's charges had left the earth churned up, grass streaked with muddy brown dirt, cratered with depressions where the explosions had caused the tunnel ceiling to collapse. A guard crew had poured wet concrete into the tunnel's entranceway in Hut 109.
He sighed loudly. There were two other pilots, B-17 men wearing heavy sheepskin coats despite the mild temperatures, standing nearby, taking in the same elusive vista.
"It doesn't seem all that far," one man said, with a sigh.
"Close," his companion agreed, muttering.
"Real close," the first pilot said.
"Into the forest, through the trees, find the road to town and you're in business. Just gotta make it to the station and a rail line heading south. Jump some old freight train destination Switzerland and you're on your way. Damn. Real close."
"Not close at all," Tommy Hart disagreed.
"And too damn obvious from the North tower."
Both men hesitated, then nodded, as if they, too, knew their eyes were betraying them. War has a way of shrinking and expanding distances, depending on the threat involved in traveling through the contested space. It's always hard to see clearly. Tommy thought, especially when one's life might be at stake.
"I'd still like just one little old chance," one of the men said. He was perhaps a little older than Tommy, and much stockier. He hadn't shaved, and he wore his campaign hat pulled down hard to his eyebrows.
"Just one chance. I think if I could just get to the other side where there ain't no wire, well, hell, ain't nothing on this earth gonna stop me then " "Except maybe a couple of million Krauts," his friend interrupted.
"And you don't speak any German and where you gonna go to, anyways?"
"Switzerland. Beautiful country. All cows and mountains and those fancy little houses…"
"Chalets," the other man said.
"They call 'em chalets."
"Right. I figure maybe a couple of weeks getting nice and fat eating chocolate. Nice big, fat milk chocolate bars served up by some pretty blond farm girl in pigtails whose mommy and daddy ain't nowhere around.
Then maybe right back home to the States, where I got a girl maybe give me some damn special hero's-type welcome, you better believe."
The other pilot slapped him on the arm. The leather jacket muffled the sound.
"Dreamer," he said. He turned toward Tommy Hart, "Been in the bag long?" he asked.
"Since November, forty-two," Tommy replied.
Both men whistled.
"Whoa! Old-timer. Ever made it out?"
"Not once," Tommy replied.
"Not for a minute. Not even for a second."
"Man," the B-17 pilot continued, "I only been here five weeks and I'm already so crazy, don't know what the hell I'm gonna do. Kinda like having an itch, you know, right in the middle of your back. Right where you can't reach it."