"Just to hurry please, lieutenant. The Oberst will explain."

Fritz Number One was quick-marching through the gate.

Tommy stole a rapid glance around him. The gate creaked as it swung shut behind his back, and he had the distinctly eerie sensation that he was walking directly through a door that he'd never known existed. He wondered for a moment whether the sensation he felt at that second was the same as what the men who bailed out of their stricken planes experienced, as they tumbled free into the cold, clear air, everything they'd known before as familiar and safe abruptly cut away from them in that instant of panic, leaving only the single passionate desire to live. He decided it was.

He took a deep breath, and hurried up the wooden steps to the commandant's office, his boots resounding off the floor like a volley of rifle shots.

On the wall directly behind the commandant's desk was the obligatory full-color portrait of Adolf Hitler. The artist had captured the Fuhrer with a distant, exulting look in his eyes, as if he were searching Germany's idealized future and saw it to be perfect and prosperous. Tommy Hart thought it was a look few Germans had anymore.

B-17s in the daytime and Lancasters at night in repeated waves make the future look less rosy. To the right of the portrait of Hitler was a smaller picture of a group of German officers standing beside the charred and twisted wreckage of a Russian Topolev fighter. A smiling Von Reiter was in the. center of the group in the photograph.

The commandant, however, wore no smile as Tommy walked to the center of the small room. Von Reiter was seated behind his oaken desk, a telephone at his right hand, some loose papers on the blotter in front of him, next to the ubiquitous riding crop. Colonel MacNamara and

Major Clark stood to his left. There was no sign of Lieutenant Scott.

Von Reiter stared across at Tommy and took a sip from a delicate china cup of steaming ersatz coffee.

"Good morning, lieutenant," he said.

Tommy clicked his heels together and saluted. He stole a single glance at the two American officers, but they were standing aside, their posture alert, but at ease. They, too, wore stern, rigid expressions.

"Herr Oberst," Tommy answered.

"Your superiors have some questions for you, lieutenant," Von Reiter said. His English was accented but excellent, every bit as good as

Fritz Number One's, although the ferret could probably have passed for American with the slang he'd acquired slinking around the American compound. Tommy doubted the aristocratic Von Reiter was interested in learning the words to "Cats on the Roof." Tommy half-turned to face the two Americans.

"Lieutenant Hart," Colonel MacNamara began slowly.

"How well do you know Captain Vincent Bedford?"

"Vic?" Tommy replied.

"Well, we're in the same hut. I've made trades with him. He always gets the better of the bargain.

I've spoken with him a few times about home, and complained about the weather or the food " "Is he a friend of yours, lieutenant?" Major

Clark abruptly demanded.

"No more, no less than anyone in the camp, sir," Tommy answered sharply. Major Clark nodded.

"And," Colonel MacNamara steadily continued, "how would you characterize your relationship with Lieutenant Scott?"

"I have no relationship, sir. No one does. I made an effort to be friendly, but that was it."

MacNamara paused, then asked: "You witnessed the altercation between the two men in their bunk room?"

"No sir. I arrived after the men had been separated, only seconds before yourself and Major Clark entered the room."

"But you heard threats made?"

"Yes sir."

The SAO nodded.

"And then, I'm told, there was a subsequent incident at the wire…"

"I would not characterize it as an incident, sir. Perhaps a misunderstanding of the rules that might have had fatal results."

"Which, I'm told, you prevented by shouting a warning."

"Perhaps. It happened swiftly."

"Would you say that this incident served to increase or further exacerbate already tense feelings between the two officers?"

Tommy paused. He had no idea what the men were driving at, but told himself to keep his answers short. He could see that both Americans and the German were paying close attention to everything he said. He warned himself inwardly to be cautious.

"Sir, what's going on?" he asked.

"Just answer the question, lieutenant."

"There was tension between the men, sir. I believe it was racial in nature, although Captain Bedford denied that to me in one conversation.

Whether it was increased or not, I wouldn't know."

"They hated each other, correct?"

"I could not say that."

"Captain Bedford hates the Negro race and made no effort to hide that fact from Lieutenant Scott, is that not true?"

"Captain Bedford is outspoken, sir. On any number of topics."

"Would you think it safe," Colonel MacNamara asked slowly, "to say that Lieutenant Scott would likely have felt threatened by Captain

Bedford?"

"It would probably be hard for him not to. But-" Major Clark snorted an interruption.

"The Negro is here for less than two weeks and already we have a fight where he takes a cheap shot at a brother officer, and higher-ranking to boot, we have probably well-founded accusations of theft, and then an alleged incident at the wire…" He stopped abruptly, then asked, "You're from Vermont-correct, Hart?

There are no Negro problems in Vermont that I know of, correct?"

"Yes sir. Manchester, Vermont. And we don't have any problems that

I'm aware of, sir. But we're not currently in Manchester, Vermont."

"That is obvious, lieutenant," Clark said sharply, his voice rising slightly with anger.

Von Reiter, who had been sitting quietly, spoke out briskly.

"I would think the lieutenant would be an appropriate choice for your task, colonel, judging from the careful way he answers your inquiries.

You are a lawyer, not a soldier, lieutenant, this is true?"

"I was in my final year at Harvard Law School when I enlisted. Right after Pearl Harbor."

"Ah." Von Reiter smiled, but humorlessly.

"Harvard. A justly famed institution for learning. I attended the

University of Heidelberg, myself. I intended to become a physician, until my country summoned me."

Colonel MacNamara coughed, clearing his voice.

"Were you aware of Captain Bedford's combat record, lieutenant?"

"No sir."

"A Distinguished Flying Cross with oak clusters. A Purple Heart. A

Silver Star for action above Germany. He did his tour of twenty-five, then volunteered for a second tour. More than thirty-two missions before being shot down-" Von Reiter interrupted.

"A most decorated and impressive flier, lieutenant. A war hero." The commandant wore a shining black iron cross on a ribbon around his own neck, and he fingered it as he spoke.

"An adversary that any fighter of the air would respect."

"Yes sir," Tommy said.

"But I don't understand…"

Colonel MacNamara took a deep breath and then spoke sullenly, in a voice of barely restrained rage.

"Captain Vincent Bedford of the United States Army Air Corps was murdered sometime after lights out last night here within the confines of Stalag Luft Thirteen."

Tommy's jaw dropped open slightly.

"Murdered, but how…"

"Murdered by Lieutenant Lincoln Scott," MacNamara said briskly.

"I don't believe-" "There is ample evidence, lieutenant," Major Clark interrupted sharply.

"Enough to court-martial him today."

"But…" "Of course, we won't do that. Not today, at least. But soon."

We expect to form a military court of justice shortly to hear the charges against Lieutenant Scott. The Germans"-and here MacNamara made a small gesture toward Commandant Von Reiter-"have consented to allow us to do this. In addition, they will comply with the court's sentence. Whatever it might be."