"It would seem that way. My job is to prevent it from happening quite the way they want."

"I shouldn't expect this will make you too popular," Scott said.

"Let's not worry about that. Let's stick to the case."

"What is their case?"

"That's my next task. To find out."

Scott paused, breathing hard, almost like a man who'd just sprinted a race.

"Do what you can, Mr. Hart," he said slowly.

"I don't want to die here. Don't get me wrong about that. But if you ask me, whatever you do won't make a damn bit of difference, because my guess is that minds are already made up, and a verdict already rendered. Verdict. What a stupid word, Hart.

What a truly stupid word. Do you know it comes from the Latin: to speak the truth. What a crock. What a lie. What a goddamn lie."

Tommy did not respond to this.

Scott suddenly looked down at his hands, turning them over, as if searching them, or inspecting the color.

"It has never made a difference, Hart, do you understand?

Never!" Scott's voice rose sharply.

"Goddamn never! Black is guilty, no matter what. It's always been like that. Maybe it will always be that way."

Scott ran his hand over the brown wool of his service blouse.

"We all thought this might make it different. This uniform.

Every last goddamn one of us. Guys die. Hart. They die hard and some die horribly, but their last thoughts are of home and making a difference for everyone they're leaving behind.

What a lie."

"I'm going to do my best," Tommy said again, but then stopped, realizing that whatever he said would sound pathetic.

Scott hesitated again, then he slowly turned his back.

"I appreciate your help," he said.

"Whatever you can manage." The resignation in the black flier's voice implied that not only did he have no expectations of help, but that he doubted that any, if delivered, would have any impact.

Both men were quiet for a moment, before Scott said bitterly:

"You know what's funny. Hart? I got shot down on April first. April first, nineteen forty-four. April Fool's Day. I got one of the Nazi bastards and my wingman got another and we had run out of ammo before the bastards jumped us. The two guys we shot down never managed to bail out. Two confirmed kills. I thought the joke was on them, but it would appear I am mistaken. Joke's on me. Maybe they did get me, after all."

Tommy Hart was about to ask a question, anything to keep the black flier talking, when he heard footsteps and voices entering the cooler corridor, beyond the thick wooden door of the cell. Both men turned at the sound of the door being unlocked and swinging open.

Four men entered the cell, crowding along the wall.

Colonel MacNamara and Major Clark stood to the front, while Hauptmann

Heinrich Visser and a corporal with a stenographer's pad hung to the rear. The two American officers returned salutes, then Clark took a single step forward.

"Lieutenant Scott," he said, briskly, "it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that you are officially being charged with the premeditated murder of Captain Vincent Bedford of the United States Army Air Corps on this day, the twenty-second of May, nineteen forty-four…"

Visser quietly translated for the stenographer, who scribbled furiously.

"… As you have been made aware, I'm certain, by your counsel, this is a capital offense. If you are convicted, the court will either sentence you to be held in isolation until such time as U.S. military authorities can take charge of your person, or it may order your immediate execution, which our captors will perform. A preliminary session with the court has been scheduled for two days from today. You may enter a plea at that time."

Clark saluted and stepped back.

"I have done nothing!" Lincoln Scott burst out.

Tommy came to attention and spoke out sharply: "Sir, Lieutenant Scott denies totally having any connection whatsoever with the killing of

Captain Bedford! He unequivocally states his innocence, sir! He also requests the return of his personal items and his immediate release into camp population."

"Out of the question," Clark replied.

Tommy Hart turned toward Colonel MacNamara.

"Sir!

How is Lieutenant Scott expected to prepare his defense to these erroneous charges from a cooler cell? This is completely unfair.

Lieutenant Scott remains innocent until he is proven to be guilty, sir.

Back home, even with the seriousness of the charges, he would still only be confined to barracks pending the trial. I'm asking nothing more."

Clark turned to MacNamara, who seemed to be considering the request.

"Colonel, you can't… Who knows what trouble we would have? I think it best for all concerned if Lieutenant Scott remains here, where he is safe."

"Safe until you arrange a firing squad, major," Scott muttered.

MacNamara glared at the two lieutenants. He held up his hand.

"That's enough," he said.

"Lieutenant Hart, you are fundamentally correct. It is important that we maintain all available military rules. However, this is a special situation."

"Special, my ass," Scott said, glaring at the commanding officer.

"Just typical Jim Crow justice."

"Watch your tongue when speaking to a superior officer!"

Clark shouted. He and Scott snarled at each other.

Tommy stepped forward.

"Sir! Where can he go? What can he do? We're all still prisoners here."

MacNamara paused, clearly pondering his alternatives.

His face was flushed red and his jaw set, as if he was struggling with the legitimacy of the request weighed against the insubordination of the black flier. MacNamara took a deep breath and finally spoke in a low, controlled voice.

"All right, Lieutenant Hart. Lieutenant Scott will be released into your custody after tomorrow morning's count. One night in the cooler,

Scott. I will need to make an announcement to the camp, and we will need to clear a room for him. Alone. I won't have him in routine contact with any other men. During this time, he will be confined to the immediate area of his barracks unless he is in your presence and engaged in legitimate defense inquiries. I have your word on this?"

"Absolutely." It was not lost on Tommy that this arrangement was more or less exactly what Vincent Bedford had wanted. Before he'd been murdered.

"Scott, I need your word, as well," MacNamara hissed, then added, "As an officer and a gentleman, of course."

Lincoln Scott continued to glare at the colonel and the major.

"Of course…" he said.

"As an officer, and a gentleman.

You have my word." He snapped off his reply.

"Very good, then we will-" "Sir," Tommy interrupted.

"Lieutenant Scott's personal items, sir! When will they be returned to him?"

Major Clark shook his head.

"They won't be. Find something new for him to wear, lieutenant, because the next time you see his shoes and his jacket will be at trial."

"Why is that, sir?" Hart asked.

"Because both items are covered with Vincent Bedford's blood," Major Clark replied with a sneer.

Neither Lincoln Scott nor Tommy Hart replied to this announcement.

In the corner of the cooler cell the German stenographer's scratching pen finally paused after Heinrich Visser translated the final few words.

The late afternoon sky had darkened, and a light, cold rain was falling when Tommy exited the cooler block. The sky above his head promised nothing but more of the same. He hunched his shoulders and turned up his jacket collar and hurried toward the gate to the American compound.

He spotted Hugh Renaday waiting for him, his back up against the exterior wall of Hut 111. Hugh was smoking furiously-Tommy saw him finish one cigarette and light a new one off the butt of the old-and staring up into the sky.