"No?"

"No sir!"

"You maintain you've taken nothing from Captain Bedford?"

Asking the same question three times got Lincoln Scott to turn slightly, so that his eyes locked with Colonel MacNamara's.

"Correct, sir."

"So, you believe Captain Bedford is mistaken with his accusation?"

Scott hesitated, assessing the question before replying.

"I would not characterize what Captain Bedford is, or is not, sir. I merely state that I have not taken any possessions that rightfully belong to him."

MacNamara scowled at the response. He pointed a finger at the flier's chest.

"Scott, I will see you tomorrow morning after Appell in my room.

Bedford, you I will see…" for a moment, the briefest of seconds, the commanding officer hesitated. Then he spoke sharply: "No, Bedford,

I'll see you first. Right after morning roll call. Scott, you be waiting outside, and when I've finished with him, I'll see you. In the meantime, I want this place cleaned up. I want it completely shipshape in five minutes.

And as for tonight, there will be no further outbursts. Absolutely none! Do you men understand that?"

Both Bedford and Scott slowly nodded, and replied in unison: "Yes sir."

MacNamara half-turned to exit, then thought better of it.

He abruptly swung toward the lieutenant he'd first questioned.

"Lieutenant" he said sharply, bringing the officer to attention.

"I want you to gather a blanket and anything else you might need for this night. Tonight, you will occupy Major Clark's bunk." MacNamara swiveled toward his second in command, "Clark, tonight I think it might be advisable-" But the major cut him off.

"Absolutely, sir." He saluted crisply.

"No problem. I'll get my blanket." The second in command turned to the young lieutenant.

"Follow me," he said briskly. Then he turned toward Tommy and the other kriegies crowding the hallway.

"End of show!" he said loudly.

"Back to your bunks. Now!"

This the kriegies, including Tommy Hart, did rapidly, scattering and scooting down the hallway like so many cockroaches when a light has been shined on them. For a few minutes, from his own space, he could hear footsteps resounding off the wooden flooring in the central corridor.

Then a suffocating silence, followed by the sudden arrival of darkness when the Germans cut the electricity. This thrust all the huts into night's black and spilled inky calm over the small, compacted world of Stalag Luft Thirteen. The only light was the erratic sweep of a searchlight over the wire, across the rooftops of the huts, probing the shadows of the camp. The only noise was the distant and familiar crunching noise of a nighttime bombing raid on factories in some nearby city, reminding the men, as they struggled to drift off to whatever nightmares awaited them, that much of great significance and importance was happening elsewhere.

Rumors flew around the compound the following morning.

There was talk that both men were going to be sent to the cooler, others suggested that an officers' court was to be convened to hear the dispute over the alleged stealing. One man said he'd heard it from a top source that Lincoln Scott was going to be shifted to a room by himself, another said that Bedford had organized support from the entire southern contingent of kriegies, and that regardless of what Colonel MacNamara did, Lincoln Scott's days were numbered.

As was usually the case, none of the more exotic rumors were true.

Colonel MacNamara met with each man privately. Scott was told he would be moved to a different hut when a bunk became available, but that

MacNamara was not willing to order a man to shift locations to accommodate the black flier.

Bedford was told that without credible, eyewitness evidence that something had been stolen, his accusations were groundless.

He was ordered to leave Scott alone until a switch could be accomplished. MacNamara commanded both men to get along until other arrangements could be made. He pointedly reminded them that they were both officers in an army at war, and subject to military discipline at all times. He told them he expected them both to behave as gentlemen and that there would be nothing more to the matter. This last suggestion carried the complete weight of the colonel's temper, and it was clear, the kriegies universally agreed when they heard of this, that no matter how much the two men might now actually hate each other, being at the very top of Colonel MacNamara's shit list was far worse.

There was an uneasiness in the camp for the next days.

Outwardly, Trader Vic went back to wheeling and dealing, and Lincoln Scott returned to his reading and to his solitary turns around the camp perimeter. Inwardly, Tommy Hart suspected much more was happening with both men. He found it all very curious, and actually intriguing. There was a distinct fragility to life in a prisoner-of-war camp; any cracks in the carefully constructed veneer of civilization that they'd created was dangerous to them all. The awful routine of confinement, the stress of their near-death when they were shot from the sky, the fear that they'd been forgotten, or worse, were being ignored, lurked just beneath all their moments, every waking minute. They fought constantly against isolation and despair, because they all knew these were enemies that equaled the Germans in threat to them all.

It was the middle of a fine afternoon, sunlight pouring over the dull, drab colors of the camp, glinting off the wire. Tommy, a law book under his arm, had just exited from one of the Aborts, and was going to find a warm spot in which to read. A furious softball game was going on in the exercise field, men's voices raised in all the usual catcalls and taunts that accompany the game of baseball, intermixed with the occasional thump of bat against ball, and ball into mitt. Just beyond the game, Tommy saw Lincoln Scott walking the deadline.

The black man was perhaps thirty yards behind the right fielder, his head down, as usual, his pace steady, yet somehow tortured. Tommy thought Scott was beginning to resemble the Russians that had marched past and disappeared into the woods.

He hesitated, then decided he would make another effort to speak with the black flier. He guessed that since the fight in the barracks no one had spoken, other than in a perfunctory manner, to Lincoln Scott.

He doubted that Scott, no matter how strong he thought he might be, could keep up the combination of self-imposed isolation and ostracism without going crazy.

So, Tommy stepped deliberately across the compound, not really thinking about what he would say, but thinking that someone ought to say something. As he approached, he noticed that the right fielder, who had turned and stared briefly at the passing flier, was Vincent Bedford.

As he walked in their direction, Tommy heard a distant whom ping sound, instantly accompanied by a cascade of hoots and cries. He twisted and saw the white shape of a softball curving in a graceful parabola against the blue Bavarian sky.

In the same instant, Vincent Bedford turned, and raced back a half-dozen strides. But the arc of the ball was too quick, even for an expert like Bedford. The softball landed behind him with a thump in the dust, raising a small puffy cloud, and, filled with momentum, immediately rolled past the deadline, up against the wire.

Bedford stopped short, as did Tommy.

Behind them, the batter who'd launched the shot was circling the bases, shouting out, while his teammates cheered, and the other fielders yelled across the dirt diamond toward Bedford.

Tommy Hart saw Bedford grin.

"Hey, nigger!" the southerner called out.

Lincoln Scott stopped. He raised his head slowly, pivoting toward Vincent Bedford. His eyes narrowed. He said nothing in reply.