He hesitated, then decided he would make another effort to speak with the black flier. He guessed that since the fight in the barracks no one had spoken, other than in a perfunctory manner, to Lincoln Scott.
He doubted that Scott, no matter how strong he thought he might be, could keep up the combination of self-imposed isolation and ostracism without going crazy.
So, Tommy stepped deliberately across the compound, not really thinking about what he would say, but thinking that someone ought to say something. As he approached, he noticed that the right fielder, who had turned and stared briefly at the passing flier, was Vincent Bedford.
As he walked in their direction, Tommy heard a distant whom ping sound, instantly accompanied by a cascade of hoots and cries. He twisted and saw the white shape of a softball curving in a graceful parabola against the blue Bavarian sky.
In the same instant, Vincent Bedford turned, and raced back a half-dozen strides. But the arc of the ball was too quick, even for an expert like Bedford. The softball landed behind him with a thump in the dust, raising a small puffy cloud, and, filled with momentum, immediately rolled past the deadline, up against the wire.
Bedford stopped short, as did Tommy.
Behind them, the batter who'd launched the shot was circling the bases, shouting out, while his teammates cheered, and the other fielders yelled across the dirt diamond toward Bedford.
Tommy Hart saw Bedford grin.
"Hey, nigger!" the southerner called out.
Lincoln Scott stopped. He raised his head slowly, pivoting toward Vincent Bedford. His eyes narrowed. He said nothing in reply.
"Hey, little help, how 'bout it, boy?" Bedford said, gesturing to the softball resting up against the barbed wire.
Lincoln Scott turned and saw the ball.
"C'mon, boy, get the damn ball!" Bedford shouted.
Scott nodded, and took a step toward the deadline.
In that second, Tommy realized what was about to happen.
The black flier was about to step over the deadline to retrieve the baseball without first donning the white smock with the red cross that the Germans provided for exactly that purpose.
Scott seemed unaware that the machine-gun crew in the nearest tower had swiveled their weapon, and that it was trained on him.
"Stop!" Tommy shouted.
"Don't!"
The black flier's foot seemed to hesitate in midair, poised over the thin wire of the deadline. Scott turned toward the frantic noise.
Tommy found himself running forward, waving his arms.
"No! No! Don't!" he cried.
He slowed as he passed Bedford. He heard Trader Vic mutter, "Hart, you damn Yankee fool…" beneath his breath.
Scott remained 'stock-still, waiting for Tommy to approach him.
"What is it?" the black man asked sullenly, but with just a tinge of anxiety in his voice.
"You have to wear the damn jacket to cross the deadline without being shot," Tommy said breathlessly. He pointed back toward the baseball game, and they saw one of the kriegies who'd been playing half-running across the field, carrying the smock, which fluttered in the breeze he made by hurrying.
"If you don't have the red cross on, the Germans can shoot. Without warning. It's the rule. Didn't anyone tell you?"
Scott shook his head, but only slightly.
"No," he said slowly, staring past Tommy at Bedford.
"No one told me about the jacket."
By this time the kriegie carrying the smock had arrived at the deadline.
"Got to wear this, lieutenant," the man said, "unless you're looking to commit suicide."
Lincoln Scott continued to stare past the man, directly at Vincent
Bedford, who stood a few feet away. Bedford pulled off his leather baseball mitt and started massaging it, working the leather slowly and deliberately.
"So," Trader Vic called out again, "you gonna get us the ball, boy, or what? Game's wasting away here."
Tommy squared around toward Bedford.
"What the hell are you trying to pull, Bedford? They would have shot him before he'd gone two feet!"
The southerner shrugged, and didn't reply. He continued to grin widely.
"That would have been murder, Vic," Tommy shouted.
"And you damn well know it!"
Bedford shook his head.
"What'cha saying. Tommy? All I asked was for that boy there to get us the ball, 'cause he was closer. Why, of course I thought he'd wait for the smock. Any damn fool knows that you gotta be wearing those colors if you want to cross the deadline. Ain't that right?"
Lincoln Scott slowly pivoted, and turned his glance up toward the machine-gun crew leaning out over the tower, watching the gathering of kriegies closely. He reached out and took the pullover with the red cross and held it in his hand for a moment. Then he held it up, so the machine gunners could see it.
Then he deliberately dropped it to the dirt.
"Hey," the kriegie said.
"Don't do that!"
In the same instant, Lincoln Scott stepped over the deadline.
He kept his gaze on the machine-gun crew in the tower.
They stepped back, crouching behind their weapon. One of the crew worked the bolt on the side of the gun, which made a sharp, metallic clicking sound that resounded through the suddenly still camp air, while the other grasped the belt of bullets, ready to feed it into the gun's maw.
His eyes still locked on the gunners, Scott strode across the short space to the wire. He reached down and seized the softball, then walked slowly back to the deadline. He stepped over the line stiffly, gave the Germans in the tower a final, contemptuous glance, and then turned from the machine gunners to Vincent Bedford.
Bedford was still grinning, but the smile was fading and seemed false.
He slipped the mitt back onto his left hand and pounded the leather palm two or three times.
"Thanks, boy," he said.
"Now fire that pill right on over here so's we can get back to the game."
Scott looked at Bedford, then glanced down at the ball. He picked up his eyes slowly, and stared past Bedford, toward the center of the baseball diamond, and beyond, to where the catcher, a kriegie umpire, and the next batter were standing.
Scott hefted the softball in his right hand, then, abruptly stepping past Tommy, took a half-jumping stride forward and unleashed the ball in a single, savage throw.
Scott's toss carried on a direct line, like a shot from a fighter's cannon, across the dusty field, toward home plate. It bounced one time in the infield before slapping into the surprised glove of the catcher.
Even Bedford's mouth dropped open slightly at the speed and distance of the throw.