John Katzenbach - Hart’s War

Then he turned and yelled down into the tunnel.

"Germans!

Any minute now! Keep digging!"

Lincoln Scott heard the major's words, but they no longer meant much to him. It seemed the threat created by the cave-in was far greater than the squad of goons racing toward Hut 107. He battled against the darkness that threatened to envelop him, as well. He savaged the dirt in front of him with a fury born of years of unremitting rage.

Tommy Hart was surprised. Death seemed to be coming softly for him.

He had managed to curl up slightly as the cave-in dropped onto his head, giving him the smallest of air pockets, one with only a few precious breaths of stale and used air. He had not thought that the world could be any darker than it had been, but it was now.

For the first time that night, perhaps even in days and weeks, he felt calm. Completely relaxed. All the tension in every fiber of his body seemed to suddenly dissipate, sliding swiftly away from him. He smiled inwardly, realizing that even the great pain in his hand, which had managed to en flame his entire body, seemed to be extinguished in that moment, as surely as if it had been doused with water. He thought this was an odd, but welcome, gift that death brought to his last moments.

Tommy took a deep breath. He almost laughed out loud. It was the most curious thing, he wondered to himself. One takes breathing so much for granted. Each pull of air, tens of thousands of times every day. It is only when one has only a few breaths left, he thought, that one realizes how special each was, how sweet and delicious they each tasted.

He took another breath and coughed. The cave-in had pinned his head and shoulders, but not his feet, and he pushed a little, almost involuntarily struggling forward, still fighting in those last seconds.

He thought of all the people in his life, seeing each as if they stood directly in front of him, and was saddened that he was about to slip into memory for each of them. He wondered if that was what death truly was, simply passing from flesh to memory.

And in this last reverie. Tommy was surprised again, this time by an unmistakable scratching noise. He was perplexed.

He thought he was completely alone, and he didn't understand how any ghost could make this particular earthly noise.

It was a noise born of life, not death, and this confused him and astonished him greatly.

But it was not a ghost that suddenly seized his torn hand.

In the utter blackness of the tunnel, he was suddenly aware that a space had opened up in front of him. In that hole before him he heard words, grunted, spoken between teeth gritted in the totality of exertion.

"Hart? Damn it! Talk to me! You are not going to die! I will not allow you to die!"

He could feel a great strength pulling him forward, sliding him through the dirt that he'd thought would form his grave.

In the same moment, all the hurts and agonies that had fled, returned, almost blinding him as pain surged once again through his body. But curiously, he welcomed this, for he thought that it meant that Death had decided to loosen its grip upon him.

He heard again, "You're not going to die, damn it! I will not permit it!"

And so he whispered back, hoarsely, "Thank you." It was all he had the energy to say.

Lincoln Scott put both hands on Tommy's shoulders, dug his powerful fingers deep into shirt and flesh, and with a great and violent grunt, tugged him from the cave-in. Then, without hesitation, Scott pulled Tommy ahead, dragging him down the tunnel. Tommy tried to help by crawling, but he could not. He had no more strength. Not even a child's. Instead, he let Scott swim him forward with jerks and twitches, hauling him toward the questionable safety of the tunnel entrance.

At the privy entrance. Major Clark stood, arms folded in front of his chest, blocking the approach of a German lieutenant and a squad of helmeted goons carrying rifles.

"Raus!" the German officer cried.

"Get out of the way!" he added in acceptable but accented English. The officer's uniform was torn at the knee and frayed at the shoulder, and a thin trickle of blood marred his jaw, dripping from the corner of his mouth. The men in the squad had many similar injuries and their uniforms were also ripped and dirtied from the mixup with the kriegies that had come charging out of Hut 107.

"Not a chance," Major Clark said briskly.

"Not until my men are out."

The German officer fumed.

"Out of the way! To escape is verboten "To escape is our duty!" Clark blustered.

"And anyway, no one's escaping, you damn idiot," Major Clark sneered, still not budging.

"Not anymore! They're coming back. And when they come out, you can have the damn tunnel. For what it's worth."

The German officer reached into his holster and removed his Luger semiautomatic pistol.

"Out of the way, Herr major, or I will shoot you here!"

To emphasize his words, he chambered a round in the weapon.

Clark shook his head.

"Not moving. Shoot me here, and you will face a hangman's noose, lieutenant. It's your own damn stupid choice."

The German officer hesitated, then raised his weapon to Clark's face.

Clark eyed him with unrelenting hatred.

"Halt!"

The officer hesitated, then turned. The men in the squad all came abruptly to attention as Commandant Von Reiter strode down the corridor. Von Reiter's face was flushed. His own fury was evident, as prominent as the red silk lining of his dress coat. He stamped his feet hard against the wooden floor.

"Major Clark," he demanded sharply.

"What is the meaning of this? You are to take your place in the formations immediately!"

Major Clark shook his head again.

"There are men down below. When they come up, I'll accompany them to the Appell" Von Reiter seemed to hesitate, only to have whatever his next command was to be interrupted by Fenelli's excited voice, rising from the tunnel pit entrance.

"He's got 'im! Goddamn it, major! Scott dug him loose! They're coming out!"

Clark turned to the medic.

"Is he okay?"

"Still alive!"

Then Fenelli turned and reached back into the tunnel, helping Lincoln

Scott pull Tommy Hart the final few feet. The two men tumbled into the anteroom, falling exhausted to the litter of dirt. Fenelli dropped down beside Tommy, cradling his head, while Lincoln Scott, breathing hard, tearing gasps of air from the tunnel shaft, slumped to the side.

Fenelli produced a canteen with water, which he dripped onto Tommy's face.

"Jesus, Hart," Fenelli whispered.

"You must be the luckiest son of a bitch I know."

Then he looked down at Tommy's mangled hand and gasped.

"Or maybe the unluckiest. Jesus, that's a mess. How the hell did that happen?"

"A dog bit me," Tommy answered weakly.

"Some dog," Fenelli said. Then he whispered another question.

"What the hell happened out there?"

Tommy shook his head and replied softly, "I got out. Not for long. But

I got out."

"Well," the medic from Cleveland replied, through his wide, dirt-smeared grin, "you made it farther than I did, and at least that's something."

He reached down, passed an arm under Tommy's shoulder, and helped Tommy rise to his feet. Scott grunted, and scrambled up as well. It took a minute or two for the two of them to lift Tommy through the pit, to the surface, where German hands seized him and angrily thrust him to the floor of the corridor.

Tommy had no idea what was next, only that he felt drunk with the heady taste of air. He did not think he had the strength to rise on his own, nor was he at all sure he could walk, if the Germans demanded it. All he could feel was immense pain and a similar store of gratitude, as if the two conflicting sensations were more than happy to share space deep within him.