Hugh was gazing through the wire. He had a faraway look in his eyes, almost as if he could just make out the prairies of his home, just beyond the sentinel trees at the edge of the Bavarian forest.

"What happened, Phillip?" he asked quietly.

"His captain took three rounds in the leg, just tore it all to hell, you know, and Phillip wouldn't leave him. North Africa, you see. Not terribly far from Tobruk, in that great mess of things Rommel and Montgomery made. So my Phillip carried his commander ten miles through that damnably hot desert with the Afrika Korps everywhere around them, right up on his back, the captain threatening to shoot himself every mile of the way, ordering Phillip to leave him behind, but of course Phillip wouldn't. They walked all day and most of the night and they were only two hundred yards from British lines, and he finally handed over the captain to a couple of the other men. There were German patrols working everywhere in the night, the lines were so fluid, you didn't really know who was friend and who was foe. Very dangerous.

Possible to get shot by either side, you see. So, he sent the team ahead, carrying the captain, and he stayed behind to cover their retreat, last man with the Bren gun and some grenades. Told them all he'd be right along in a shake or two. The others made it home.

Phillip didn't. Don't know exactly what happened.

Missing in action, you understand, not even officially dead, but of course I know the truth. I got a letter from the captain. Nice fellow. An Oxford don, actually, read the classics and taught some Latin and Greek before the war. He told me that there had been explosions and machine-gun fire from the spot where Phillip had set up his rear guard He told me that Phillip must have fought desperately hard against all the odds, because the firing went on for some time, furiously, more than enough time for the rest of his team to reach safety.

That was Phillip, wouldn't you know. He would gladly have traded his life for those of the others, but he wouldn't trade it cheaply. No, not Phillip. It would take more than a few of those Kraut bastards to kill him. The captain, he lost his leg.

But he lived because my boy carried him to safety. Phillip, they put him up for a VC. And he lost his life."

Pryce shook his head again.

"He was beautiful, my boy. Perfect and lovely and beautiful.

He could run, you know. Run forever. I could see him on the playing fields when he was younger at the end of a match when everyone else was wheezing and dragging and he would still be loping along, laughing, effortless. Just for the joy of it.

And I suppose that was the way he felt, right up to the end, even with the bastards closing in on him and his ammunition expended. And on the day I got that letter from the captain, Hugh, any hope I had left within me died, and all I wanted to do was to kill Germans. Kill Germans and die myself. Kill them for killing everything I loved. And that's why I climbed into that Blenheim alongside you, Hugh. And the gunner I replaced?

He wasn't really ill. No. I ordered him out, because I wanted to man that gun. It was the only way I knew to kill the bastards."

Pryce sighed hard, raising his hand to his cheeks, gently touching with his fingertips the moisture flowing down. He looked over at Tommy and Hugh.

"You boys, you both remind me of Phillip in different ways. He was tall and studious, like you, Tommy. And he was strong and athletic, like you, Hugh. Now, damn it, don't either of you die. I couldn't stand it, you see."

Phillip Pryce took a deep breath. He wiped the tears away from his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic.

"I think," he said slowly, inhaling deeply with seemingly every third word, "that it would do my poor torn and broken heart good to see our young and innocent Mr. Scott live, as well. Now, let us turn our attention to this morning's hearing."

Lincoln Scott was seated on the edge of his lone bunk in the empty room when Tommy, accompanied by both Hugh and Pryce, entered. It was shortly before ten a.m. and the black flier was holding the unopened Bible in his lap, almost as if the words within could emanate directly through the worn dark leather binding and be absorbed into his heart through the palms of his hands. He rose as the three men entered. He nodded toward Tommy and Hugh, and then looked at Phillip Pryce with some curiosity.

"More help from the British Isles?" he asked.

Pryce stepped forward, his hand extended.

"Precisely, my boy. Precisely. My name is Phillip Pryce."

Scott shook his hand firmly. But at the same moment, he smiled, as if he'd just heard a joke.

"Something amusing?" Pryce asked.

The black flier dipped his head.

"In a way, yes."

"And what would that be?"

"I'm not your boy," Scott said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said, 'precisely, my boy…" Well, I'm not your boy.

I'm not anyone's boy. I am a man."

Pryce cocked his head to the side.

"I don't think I totally follow…" he started.

"It's the word: boy. When you call a Negro boy, it is derogatory.

Slave talk. Out of the past. That's what Captain Bedford called me, over and over, trying to get beneath my skin," Scott said, his voice level, but marked with a cold, edgy restraint that Tommy recognized from their prior conversations.

"He, of course, wasn't the first cracker bastard to insult me that way since I enlisted, and probably won't be the last.

But I am not your, nor anyone else's, boy. The word is offensive.

Didn't you know this?"

Pryce smiled.

"How intriguing," he said with unmistakable enthusiasm.

"What is a modest term of friendliness in the speech of my country takes on an utterly different connotation to Mr. Scott, with his background. Fascinating. Tell me, Lieutenant Scott, are there other words in common English use that are impregnated with such different meanings that I should be aware of?"

Scott seemed slightly taken aback by Pryce's response.

"I'm not certain," he said.

"Well, if there are, please let me know. I sometimes think when talking to young Tommy here, that we made a great error a couple of centuries back when we allowed you Americans to appropriate our wonderful native tongue. We should never have shared it with you adventurers and ne'er-do-wells." Pryce spoke rapidly, almost merrily.

"And why are you here?" Scott interrupted sharply.

"But, my dear…" Pryce stopped himself.

"My dear lad?

Is that acceptable, lieutenant?"

Scott shrugged an agreement.

"Well, I am here to lend a little behind the scenes assistance and expertise. And before you enter into this morning's little hearing, I wanted to meet you for myself."

"You are an attorney, as well?"

"Indeed, I am, lieutenant."

Scott looked askance, as if not believing the wisp of a man standing in front of him.

"And you wanted to inspect me?

Like some side of beef? Or a carnival sideshow freak? What was it that you came over here to see?" He threw out the questions with a harsh near-rage, so that they blistered the air of the room.

Pryce, still breezy, hesitated briefly, like a comedian's pause before dropping the punch line. Then he fixed the black flier with a single, penetrating look.

"I expected to see only one thing, lieutenant," he said quietly.

"And what was that?" Scott replied, his voice slightly high-pitched.

Tommy could see that the knuckles of the hand holding the Bible had turned a lighter color, he was squeezing them so tightly.

"Innocence," Pryce responded.

Scott took a deep breath, filling his barrel chest with air.

"And how is it that you can see this, Mr. Pryce? Is innocence like a flight jacket that I can put on in the morning, or when it's cold? Is it in the eyes, or the face, or in the way I stand at attention? Is it a mannerism? A smile, perhaps? Tell me, how does one wear a quality such as innocence? Because I'd like to know. It might help in my situation."