Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

Gun Section Eight was relieved from its position on Mont Reynard in the last week of December and posted to a temporary staging area west of Namur. In the last six weeks, Docker and Trankic (now sergeant) were occupied writing reports on their losses in personnel and equipment, answering interrogatories from Graves Registration and supervising the instruction of recruits assigned to the section and platoon from redeployment depots.

Each member of Section Eight (except Schmitzer) had been queried by Air Force Intelligence to collate their impressions about the speed, tactics, performance and silhouette patterns of the ME-262 jet aircraft the section had shot down over Mont Reynard on the afternoon of December 20th.

Docker was asked by Captain Joe Grant to prepare a report on the movements of his section (casualties, actions engaged in, exact route of march) during the thirteen days the unit had been out of communication with Battery and Battalion headquarters.

Three weeks later Captain Richard Travolta from First Army’s Judge Advocate’s staff visited Dog Battery at the staging area west of Namur to take depositions from the section regarding the action and casualties on Mont Reynard, the specific thrust of his inquiry focusing on the deaths of privates Samuel Gelnick and Jackson Baird.

As a result of these interviews and statements — despite them or because of some lack in them, Docker wasn’t sure which — Docker had been ordered to report to Liège on this date, February 14th, 1945, to give additional testimony at a board of special inquiry convened by First Army...

A knock sounded now and a woman’s voice called something in French that he couldn’t make out. He opened the door and a thin maid looked inquiringly at him and made exaggerated gestures of using a scrubbing board. Docker pointed to his duffel bag and told her he’d appreciate it if she’d take care of his laundry.

A male voice hailed him from the end of the corridor. “Lieutenant Docker? We’ve been expecting you.”

An officer with captain’s bars on his jacket stood in the open door of the elevator. “I’m Captain Walton. Traffic here’s a pain in the ass, so let’s get moving.”

“Be right with you, sir.” Docker picked up his overcoat and joined the captain. They rode to the first floor in silence and walked out to the curving driveway where a PFC waited for them beside a covered jeep.

When they pulled away from the curb, the captain said, “Major Karsh runs a shop so tight your asshole will be squeaking. I hope you had breakfast.”

“I’m fine, sir,” Docker said.

“Good, real good. You field soldiers never stand short, I guess.”

Captain Walton was in his early thirties, slender and tidily put together with a thin, blond mustache that drooped like wilted feathers at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were round and blue behind steel-rimmed glasses, which lent an old-fashioned look to his narrow, youthful face.

“Hey, isn’t it about time for the goddamn spurs and bat?”

Docker glanced at him in surprise but saw that Walton was speaking to his driver, who was leaning on the horn as he maneuvered the jeep through columns of big army trucks.

The driver laughed. “Bat and spurs ain’t half of it. I’m giving every damn horse I got his head this morning.”

“My driver’s a rowdy old boy from Tennessee,” Walton said. “Unbroken, uncivilized, un-everything you can think of, but still the best goddamn jeep jockey in the whole First Army...” Walton stroked his mustache. “I’m sure, lieutenant, you’re curious about these hearings, but Major Karsh will spell that out for you. He runs a tight ship, like I said. Nobody at the wheel but the skipper. You get the idea?”

Docker nodded. He got the idea.

First Army’s board of special inquiry convened at ten A.M. on February 14th in the ballroom of the Hotel Empire, whose entrance faced tree-lined boulevards and a brilliant curve of the Meuse River. An MP corporal was posted at double doors that opened from the mezzanine into a ballroom. The corporal wore a class-A uniform and helmet liner and stood at parade rest, rifle canted away from his body, back and shoulders erect against the carved panels of the tall doors.

The MP presented arms when Docker and Captain Walton entered the ballroom. The captain walked to a conference table where two officers were seated, a second lieutenant and a major. Smaller desks flanked this table which was piled with briefcases, manila folders and legal tablets.

On one desk stood an Army field telephone and a tray with coffee makings. A WAC sergeant sat at the other, notebook and jar of pencils in front of her.

Captain Walton joined the major and lieutenant and waved Docker to a chair facing them.

“You’ve met Captain Walton,” the major said. “I’m Major Sydney Karsh. This is Lieutenant Clement Weiffel. We are the presiding officers of this board of inquiry, which has been convened by the Judge Advocate’s staff of First Army. Our recording secretary is Sergeant Elspeth Corey.” The major removed his heavy, horn-rimmed glasses. “We’ll be ready to begin in a few minutes, lieutenant, so meanwhile, make yourself comfortable.”

As the major distributed manila-bound files to his aides, Docker looked around the ballroom. Many of the windows had been splintered by bomb blasts and were now crisscrossed with patchwork designs of heavy tape. Wooden scaffoldings stood braced against the beige walls. In some places the heavily damaged plaster was covered with canvas. Decorative crystals had been removed from the three huge chandeliers and naked bulbs cast a glaring light across the gold-leafed ceiling. Clusters of sofas and chairs were draped with white sheets, and a shiny parquet floor was scattered with faded old carpets.

The WAC sergeant would have been attractive, Docker thought, if it weren’t for the severity in her expression. She was simply doing a job, a slim, blond secretary in Army uniform, but something in her gathered energies suggested a different image to Docker — perhaps a sleek cat with all of its attention concentrated on a mousehole.

When Major Karsh said, “Lieutenant Docker, I’d like to explain—” she began recording with precise pencil strokes, but Karsh glanced at her and said, “Sergeant Corey, this is an informal preliminary statement, so don’t bother taking it down.” A smile flared and faded quickly on his face. “When I need a transcript, I’ll nod to you.” The major’s smile came again, as if to underscore the amiability of his instructions. “There’ll be a good deal of casual discussion,” he said, “and there’s no point in burdening you with all of it.”

“Yes, Major Karsh.” When she shifted her position and lowered the notebook, the overhead light shifted and moved like quicksilver along her slim and neatly muscled legs. Docker wondered how she’d be in the sack, wondered if she’d come to attention and salute and request permission to merge with the infinite or haul her ashes, as Kohler would put it... but he also told himself he was being defensive, that he resented these freshly groomed and well-tailored officers with their legal pads and judgmental frowns and gestures.

Major Karsh glanced at Docker, another smile sharpening his features.

“Lieutenant Docker, let’s start by fixing the time element. The chronology of events. On what date was Jackson Baird killed?”

“December twenty-third, sir.”

“On what date did he join your section?”

“December seventeenth, sir.”

“He was with your unit just one week then?”

“Yes, sir. One week.”

“So it follows that your knowledge of Jackson Baird and his background, and whatever insights you have of his character and personality and so forth, were gained in that seven-day period from December seventeenth to December twenty-third. Correct, lieutenant?”