John Katzenbach - Hart’s War

"Jesus," the kriegie whispered.

"That damn thing almost brought the roof down on my head.

Thanks." The man leaned up against the wall of the anteroom.

"There's no air," he whispered.

"No damn air up there at all. I hope nobody passes out."

Scott helped to steady the gasping man against the side of the pit, and put the access cable in his hands. The kriegie nodded thanks and started to pull himself up, hand over hand.

As soon as he'd managed to lift himself over Scott's head, the black flier turned and grabbed the bellows.

He set it upright, and then plunked himself down, straddling it as had the captain from New York earlier that long night. With a strength born of urgency, he started to pump away furiously, sending blasts of air down the tunnel.

Nearly a full minute passed before the next kriegie slid through the tunnel entrance. This flier seemed exhausted by the tension of the failed escape. He coughed and tore at the air in the anteroom gratefully with wheezing breath and pointed at the bellows.

"Good," he whispered dryly.

"You can't breathe up there. Not at all."

"Where's Hart?" Scott demanded, between grunts. His face glistened with the sweat of exertion.

The man shook his head.

"I don't know. Coming, maybe? I don't know. You can't see. Can barely breathe. There's goddamn sand and dirt everywhere and all you can hear are the other guys yelling to back up, get out, get out, get out. That and you can hear the damn boards in the roof creaking and snapping. I hope the whole thing doesn't come caving in. Are the Krauts here yet?"

Scott gritted his teeth. He shook his head.

"Not yet. You've got a chance to get out, quick."

Number Forty-five nodded. He sighed, gathering strength.

Then he, too, struggled up the cable, reaching toward the hands at the privy entrance that were extended to him.

Below, Scott continued to pump air with deadly speed. The bellows creaked and whooshed, and the black flier grunted hard at the effort.

Slowly, one after another, the men crawled out of the tunnel. All were filthy, all were scared, all were relieved to be able to see the surface. One man said, "That's what dying must be like." Another said, "It's like a damn grave in there."

Every kriegie filled his lungs with air, and more than one took one look at Scott behind the bellows and whispered grateful thanks.

Time seemed to stretch around them dangerously, tugging at each man like the undertow on the beach, threatening to pull them into the shifting currents of deep waters. The tunnel itself, Scott thought, must be a little like drowning. Then he shoved this thought away, and demanded of the next man the only question that seemed to matter to him any longer, "Have you seen Hart? Where's Hart?"

No one could answer.

Fenelli, who was Number Twenty-eight, pulled himself forward, landing in a heap by Scott's legs. He gestured at the bellows.

"Damn good thing you started to do that," he hissed.

"Otherwise we'da had unconscious men stuck all over the damn tunnel.

It's almost toxic in there."

"Where's Hart?" Scott demanded for the hundredth time.

Fenelli shook his head.

"He was at the very front. Outside the wire. Giving the men the go ahead. I don't know where he is, now."

Scott was filled with the anger of impotence. He didn't know what the hell else he could do, except continue to shoot the lifesaving air down the tunnel.

"You better get out of here," he grunted.

"They'll help you up topside."

Fenelli started to rise, then slumped back down. He smiled.

"You know, I have a cousin in the navy. Goddamn submarines.

He wanted me to join up with him, but I told him only a fool would try to swim around under the damn ocean, holding their breath and looking for Japs. You'd never catch me doing anything so stupid, I told him.

Hah! Now, look at me. Twenty feet under the ground, still stuck in a damn prison. It sure is a long way from flying."

Scott nodded, still working hard. He managed a small smile.

"I think," Fenelli said, "I'll stick here with you for a couple of minutes."

The medic from Cleveland bent over, peering back into the pitch black tunnel. Perhaps sixty seconds passed, and then he reached forward, helping Number Twenty-seven through the last few feet. This was the captain from New York. He, too, dropped immediately to the floor, gasping like a fish out of water.

"Jesus," he said.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What a fucking mess. I had to dig through a pile of sand more than once. Things are getting pretty shaky in there."

"Where's Tommy?"

The man shook his head.

"There's still men coming down the tunnel behind me," he said. He seized a breath of air and struggled to his feet.

"Jesus. Feels good to stand up. Now, I'm out of here. Kee-rist!" He grabbed at the cable and with Fenelli steadying him, began to lift himself toward the safety of the surface.

It was right when Number Nineteen finally pushed through the tunnel entrance, that Major Clark leaned over the edge of the pit and shouted down, "That's it! They just sounded the damn alarm!"

The howl of a distant air-raid siren managed to penetrate even to the depth where they were gathered.

"Where's Hart?" Scott cried.

Number Nineteen shook his head.

"He shoulda been right behind me," he said.

"But I don't know where he went."

"What happened?" Fenelli demanded, kneeling down and staring into the tunnel darkness. He craned his head into the hole, trying to hear sounds of crawling.

"Come on, you men, hurry up!" Major Clark cried out from above.

"Let's move!"

Number Nineteen continued to shake his head.

"I don't know," he said.

"I was at the top of the ladder, waiting for the signal to run, you know, just like we'd been briefed, 'cept it was Hart on the other end of the rope, giving the signals, not the guy in front of you, like we expected. Anyways, I'm waiting and waiting and wondering what the hell, 'cause it's been more than a coupla minutes and we're supposed to be going every two, three minutes, and all of a sudden, all I can hear is the sound of two men fighting. And some kinda fight, too. No voices, not at first. Just grunts and hard breathing and punches being thrown and landing, too. Then there's silence and then like from nowheres, I can just hear some voices finally.

Can't hear what the hell anyone's saying, but that don't matter, 'cause next thing I know, there's Hart, right in the entrance, saying there's Krauts everywhere and to get my tail back up the tunnel fast, get everybody out, 'cause the alarm's gonna go off any second. So I drop back down and start back, but it takes damn near forever, 'cause guys are panicking, and fighting to get turned around and you can't barely breathe and there's dirt everywhere and you can't see a damn thing 'cause every candle is out. And then, here I am."

"Where's Hart?" Scott shouted.

Number Nineteen shrugged, still catching his breath.

"I can't tell you. I thought he'd be right behind me. But he ain't."

From above. Major Clark's voice bellowed down.

"Hurry up! Germans will be here any second! We have to close up!"

Scott turned his face up.

"Hart's not back!" he answered sharply.

Major Clark seemed to hesitate.

"He should be behind the last man!"

"He's not back!"

"We have to close up before they get here!"

"He's not back!" Lincoln Scott roared. Insistent.

"Well, where the hell is he?" the major demanded.

Tommy Hart could no longer separate the different pains that swept through his body. His mangled hand seemed to have distributed agony throughout every inch of his being. Every surge of blinding hurt was fueled by an exhaustion so total and utterly complete that he no longer really believed that he had the strength to pull himself down the entire length of the tunnel. He had traversed past the point where fear and terror held sway, deep into death's arena. That he was able to crawl forward almost surprised him; he had no real understanding where the energy came from. His muscles screamed threats of fatigue.