The actor and the chess champion saw the same contrast between the Germans and the English at the same moment Tommy did. But the chess champion whispered, "The limeys might think this is something of a joke, but I'll bet the house that Von Reiter doesn't find it all so damn funny."

The officers and the captured men marched past the gate and came to a rest at the front of the formations of British airmen. The Senior British Officer, a mustachioed, ruddy-faced bomber pilot with a shock of reddish hair streaked with gray, stepped to the front, calling the men in their ranks to attention, and several thousand sets of heels clicked together smartly. Von Reiter glared at the SBO, then turned to the rows of airmen.

"You British, you think war is some game? Some sort of sport, like your cricket or rugby?" he demanded in a loud, angry voice that carried over the heads of the assembled men.

"You think we play at this?"

Von Reiter's fury fell like a thunderstorm on their heads.

No one replied. The captured men behind him slowly grew silent.

"It is all a joke to you?"

From within the ranks a single voice called out in a heavy mock-Cockney accent: "Anything to break the bleedin' monotony, guv'nah!"

There was laughter, which faded quickly under Von Reiter's glare. His eyes flashed with rage.

"I can assure you that the Luftwaffe High Command does not consider escape to be a laughing matter."

From another section, a different voice, this time with an Irish lilt, answered, "Well then, boyo, the joke's on you this time!"

Another smattering of laughs, which again ceased almost instantly.

"Is it now? "Von Reiter asked coldly.

The Senior British Officer stepped forward. Tommy could hear him quietly reply, somewhat contradictorily, "But my dear Commandant Von

Reiter, I assure you, no one is making jokes-" Von Reiter sliced his riding crop through the air, cutting off the British officer's response.

"Escape is forbidden!"

"But, commandant-" "Verboten!"

"Yes, but-" Von Reiter turned to the assembly.

"I have this day received new directives from my superiors in Berlin.

They are simple: Allied airmen attempting to escape from prisoner-of-war camps within the Reich will now be treated as terrorists and spies! Upon your capture, you will not be returned to Stalag Luft Thirteen! You will be shot on sight!"

Silence seized the assembly. It took several seconds for the Senior

British Officer to reply, and when he did, it was in a flat, cold voice.

"I would warn Herr Oberst that what you suggest is a direct violation of the Geneva Convention, of which Germany is a signatory. Such treatment of escaping Allied personnel would constitute a war crime, and anyone engaging in such behavior will eventually find himself facing, a firing squad. Or a hangman's noose, Herr Oberst. That, I can promise!"

Von Reiter turned to the British officer.

"I have my orders!" he answered briskly.

"Legal orders! And do not speak to me, wing commander, of war crimes!

For it is not the Luftwaffe that nightly drops incendiaries and delayed-fuse bombs upon cities filled with noncombatants! Cities filled with women, children, and the elderly! Expressly against your beloved Geneva Convention rules!"

As he spoke, Von Reiter glanced over at Hauptmann Visser, who nodded, and instantly barked out a command to the men guarding the British fliers who'd been involved in the escape attempt. The Germans immediately chambered rounds in their rifles, or manipulated the firing bolt on the Schmeisser machine pistols they carried. These made a distinctively evil clicking sound. The squad encircling the British officers raised their weapons into firing positions.

For several long seconds there was utter quiet on the parade ground.

His face suddenly pale, drawn tight, the Senior British Officer stepped forward sharply into the silence.

"Are you threatening a massacre of unarmed men?" he shouted. His voice abruptly turned high-pitched, almost girlish with fear and near-frenzy. There was more than a tinge of panic in each word he spoke.

Von Reiter, still red-faced but with the irritating coolness that superiority of firepower brings, turned to the British officer.

"I am well within my rights, wing commander. And I am merely following direct orders. From the highest levels in Berlin. To disobey would result in perhaps my own firing squad."

The SBO stepped closer to the German.

"Sir!" he shouted.

"We are all here as witnesses! If you murder these men…"

Von Reiter glared at the Englishman.

"Murder? Murder!

You dare talk to me of murder! With your firebomb attacks upon unarmed civilians! Terrorfliegers!"

"You will hang, Von Reiter, if you give the order to fire! I'll fashion the bloody noose myself!"

Von Reiter took a deep breath, calming himself. He eyed the SBO with irritation. Then he smiled cruelly.

"You, wing commander, are the officer in charge. This foolish escape attempt today is your responsibility. Will you offer yourself to the firing squad, in return for the lives of these men?"

The Senior British Officer's jaw dropped in astonishment and he did not immediately reply.

"It would seem a most fair trade, wing commander. One man's life to save the lives of two dozen."

"What you're suggesting is a crime," the officer answered.

Von Reiter shrugged.

"War is a crime," he said briskly.

"I am merely asking you for a decision officers make frequently.

Will you sacrifice one man for the good of many? Yourself?

Quickly, wing commander! Your decision!"

The camp commandant lifted his riding crop in the air, as if about to give the command to open fire.

The rows of British airmen seemed to stiffen, then waver, as if rage like a wind passed down each line. Voices started to rise, angrily. In one of the nearby guard towers a machine gun pivoted on its base, making a creaking sound as it was brought to bear on the assembly.

The two dozen would-be escapees seemed to shrink together.

Where they had worn boisterous smiles and wide grins as they emerged from interrogation, now they had paled, staring out at the weapons that covered them.

"Commandant!" the Senior British Officer shouted hoarsely.

"Don't do something you might later regret!"

Von Reiter eyed the officer carefully.

"Regret? Regret killing the enemy that is doing such a fine job of killing my own people? Where should I find something in that to regret?"

"I'm warning you!" the officer cried out.

"I'm still awaiting your decision, wing commander! Will you take their places?"

Tommy stole a look at Heinrich Visser. The German could do little to hide his pleasure.

"I think they're going to do it," whispered the actor standing next to him.

"Damn it, I think they are!"

"No, they're bluffing," said the chess master.

"Are you certain?" Tommy asked, under his breath.

"No," the chess master replied quietly.

"Not at all."

"They're going to do it," repeated the actor.

"They're really going to do it! I heard they shot men that escaped from one of the other camps. Fifty Brits, I heard. Went out through a tunnel, were on the lam for weeks. Executed as spies. I didn't believe it, but now…"

Von Reiter paused, letting the tension build in the air around him. The goons with their fingers on the triggers of their weapons waited for a command, while the assembled British airmen stood rock-still, in terror at what seemed about to unfold.

"All right, commandant!" the Senior British Officer said loudly.

"I'll take their place!"

The camp commandant turned slowly, lowering his riding crop languorously. He placed one hand upon a black-sheathed ceremonial dagger that he wore in the belt of his dress uniform.