Scott Turow - Ordinary Heroes

"Seems like everybody's quite vexed with me, Dubin," said Martin as he handed the paper back. "Including you."

"You lied to me, Major. And stole away in the dead of night."

"I told you I was about to depart on a mission, Dubin, when you arrived that day at the Comtesse s.

"You were referring to blowing the dump at La Saline Royale."

"Was I? Your misunderstanding. I'm sorry. Have you spoken yet to OSS? What is it they've told you about my current orders?" I realized then that was why Martin had come around. He wanted to know what OSS surmised about his disappearance-whether they thought he'd gone mad, or had deserted, or if, more critically, they'd figured out that he was working for the Soviets. I was determined to give him no answers to that.

"London has approved your arrest, Major."

"Rubbish. I'd wager a large sum, Dubin, you have not heard that personally from anyone at OSS. They're the ones who sent me this way. Don't you recall? I told you several times I was being dispatched to Germany." To link up with his old network and save lives, he had said. There was no doubt OSS would want German supporters at this stage.

Across the entryway Bidwell's eyes had jumped from Martin to me to be certain I wasn't going to be taken in again, but he had no need for concern. The motto of the law remained with me. Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus. False in one thing, false in all. One lie was enough to deprive any witness of credibility and Martin's fabrications were beyond tolling. Whatever the irony, I reposed considerable faith in Teedle's veracity by now He was too direct to lie. I simply shook my head at Martin.

"You make it your business to get to London, Dubin, and to speak with Colonel Winters. You'll see I'm telling the truth."

"For your sake, I hope you are, Major. But there is no ambiguity in the orders I have. You are to be arrested. Whenever we can make safe passage to the west, Bidwell and I will escort you back to Third Army Headquarters. As an officer you'll be held under house arrest until your trial."

"House arrest?"' He chuffed some air after the words. "That sounds like my childhood. And won't Teedle be satisfied?" That thought wilted him. He slumped against the wall across the entryway from Bidwell, and opened up his flask. He offered me a slug, which I declined. I wanted no more of Robert Martin's generosity.

"Do you read Nietzsche, Dubin?" Martin asked after a moment.

"I have."

"Yes, I have, too. General Teedle has read Nietzsche, of that you can be certain. life's school of war: what does not kill me makes me stronger.' It's all rot," he said. "And Teedle is not Superman. Do you know why the General wants the world to think he's a great man of action, with his arms across his chest? Have you seen him strike that pose in the newsreels? The General is a fruit," Martin said. "Have you learned that yet?"

I said nothing.

"I don't mind faggots," said Martin. "There've been several who've done some damn good stuff for me over the years. One of them was a waiter in Paris. Can't imagine what a waiter overhears, Dubin. But he was one of those wispy queers who made no bones about it. The General thinks he's just a man who sleeps with men."

"Are you saying that feeds his grudge against you, Major?"

"Who knows? Probably not. For Teedle it's probably all about me supposedly being a Communist. Have you asked him about that?"

I took a second to consider what I should say. I couldn't entirely surrender my curiosity now that he'd raised the subject.

"Teedle says you were a party member, Major. In Paris."

Rarely given to laughter, Martin managed a short high-pitched cackle. "Well, I've always liked a good party," he said. "And for that I'm to be arrested?"

"You're to be arrested for insubordination, Major. But General Teedle would probably tell you to your face that he suspects that when our armies meet, you'd follow the orders of Russian generals rather than his." Given my experiences with Martin, I wouldn't have placed much faith in his denials. But I was still taken aback when he made none. Instead, he chuckled again.

"You can lay good money on that, Dubin. I'd sooner take directions from a squawking parrot than Teedle. But fortunately I'm here under a fine commander. I have no problems with Algar, you'll notice."

"The Lieutenant Colonel said you were about to undertake some new operation, Major?"

"Indeed. We start about an hour from now." I expected him to invoke the privileges of required secrecy, but apparently the mission was common knowledge. The military situation around Bastogne was even worse than the flight mechanics at Virton had suggested. The Germans had cut the last roads yesterday and fully encircled the area. Now they would tighten their grip until they could blast the American troops into submission. Our position was tenuous, but the men I'd encountered, including those with Algar, and Martin now, remained calm. Patton was on the way, supposedly, but the troops all felt that what they needed was bullets and equipment so they could break out themselves. That was what Martin's operation was about.

On December 19, as the Germans had flanked Bastogne to the south and west, they had cut off an American supply train near Vaux-les-Rosieres, blocking the tracks with tanks and leaving the train there, probably waiting to determine if they could make any use of its contents themselves. Along with some of the men from the 'loth Regiment whom he'd been commanding for a week now, Martin aimed to reach those railcars full of ammunition.

The bet was that when his troops and his three Hellcat tank destroyers cut into the thin German lines, the Nazis would fall back to consolidate their position, thinking this was the spearhead of a concerted American effort to pierce the encirclement. Martin and his men would probably have an unimpeded path to the train. If Martin could get the locomotive moving, they would steam into Bastogne. If not, they would off-load as much as they could of the 75mm ammunition and the bullets for smaller arms and then dash back before the Germans closed in again.

The only difficult part, Martin thought, might be getting through in the first place.

"The infantry's thin," he said. "We'll go right past them. The Panzer Lehr are roaming out there somewhere, but even McAuliffe thinks it's a solid plan," he said, referring to the commander of the mist who was directing the defense of Bastogne. "Even if the Lehr show up, we can fall back. And if we make it through, our chances of success are very high."

"Trains and ammunition," I said. "You seem to have a motif, Major."

"Old dog, old tricks," he answered. "It's damn boring to be a specialist. I never wanted to specialize in anything when I was a boy. But then I fell in love with the railroad."

I asked if he was the kind who ran model locomotives around a track decorated with miniature trees and stations.

"Never had patience for that. I was somewhat frenetic as a child. I suppose you can still see that. No, trains for me came at a later point. I left home for a spell when I was seventeen. Hopped a freight car. First taste of freedom I'd had in my life was when that car went hurtling out of Poughkeepsie. I decided at that moment that the railroad was the greatest of mankind's inventions. I loved being around trains. When I went to my mother's people in Paris after I dropped out of college, that was the work I sought. Started as a porter. Ended up as an engineer. The idea that I was a common workingman appalled my father, but it delighted me."

"I don't think I've heard you mention your parents before, Major."

"No accident in that, Dubin." He nipped at his flask again and looked at the candles. "My father's a professor of Romance languages at Vassar College. Met my mother when he was at the Sorbonne. Very distinguished fellow, my father. And the meanest man walking God's green earth. I agree with him about everything. Politics. Music. I don't like his attire, I suppose, I don't like his hats. But it goes to show you beliefs aren't everything. He's a complete son of a bitch."