Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Let’s go forward a bit. After Private Jackson Baird was fatally wounded, your gun section remained on Mont Reynard until you made contact with your battery headquarters. What date was that, lieutenant?”

“December twenty-eighth. Lieutenant Whitter, our platoon commander, arrived then and gave us orders to withdraw toward Namur.”

Karsh said, “And that was when you learned of the deaths of Lieutenant Longworth and Corporal Larkin?”

“Yes, sir.”

Major Karsh checked the notes he’d made on his pad. “I think that gives us the chronological bookends, so to speak... Young Baird was picked up by your section on the seventeenth, killed by enemy fire on the twenty-third, contact with your battery reestablished on the twenty-eighth.”

Karsh glanced at Captain Walton and Lieutenant Weiffel. “Any questions about this so far?”

They both shook their heads.

“Very well.” The major looked through the stack of files in front of him, selected one and pushed it across the table toward Docker. Again his quick smile.

“Would you take a look at this, lieutenant?”

Docker opened the manila folder, which contained two files of typewritten pages.

“You recognize those documents, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

Major Karsh nodded to Sergeant Corey, who adjusted her note pad and prepared to take down their exchanges.

“Lieutenant, please tell us in your own words their origin and nature.”

“These are two separate reports, one of which I made at the request of our battery commander, Captain Joseph Grant, and the other at the request of an officer from the Judge Advocate’s staff of First Army, Captain Travolta.”

“What’s the date of the first report, lieutenant?”

“December thirtieth, 1944.”

“And the second?”

“January twenty-third, 1945.”

“Then for the record, we’ll call the report written December thirtieth. File A. And the report written the twenty-third of January, File B. Is that clear enough, lieutenant?”

“Yes, it’s clear enough.”

Major Karsh glanced at the sergeant. “We’ll go off the record for a moment. Lieutenant, I want this hearing to proceed as casually and efficiently as possible. But I also expect you to observe the conventions of military courtesy at all times. In answering, you’ll address the members of the board either as ‘sir’ or by their appropriate ranks. Is that clear, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may proceed. Would you like the sergeant to refresh your memory?”

“I’d appreciate that, sir.”

She glanced at her notebook. “Question: ‘You recognize these documents, lieutenant?’ Answer: ‘Yes, sir.’ Question: ‘Lieutenant, tell us in your own words their origin and nature.’ ”

She looked at Docker. “Is that sufficient, lieutenant?”

“Yes, that’s fine... sergeant.”

Docker glanced from the files to Major Karsh. “Sir, after our section was ordered to pull back from Mont Reynard, I had a briefing session with Captain Grant at the battery CP outside Namur. He told me then to write a full and detailed report covering the time Section Eight had been cut off from Battery Headquarters.”

“Did Captain Grant suggest to you what to include — or not include — in that report. Lieutenant?”

“No, sir. His instructions were to make it as complete as possible.”

“I see. And you followed those instructions?”

“I did my best, sir. The report includes an account of the German plane we shot down — an ME-262, a jet aircraft, a model and design we’d never seen before. And it also includes the fact that a radio signal Corporal Trankic sent from a Resistance transmitter in Lepont had been picked up by Eighth Air Force station near Brussels. File A also covered the section’s casualties, and the details of a combat action with a German tank, a Tiger Mark II.”

The major looked steadily at Docker. “And File A included, did it not, the report of a conversation between you and Jackson Baird during which, according to your testimony, Baird told you he had deserted his post during an enemy attack on the first day of the Battle of the Bulge?”

“Yes, sir, that was in the report.”

“Lieutenant, did you feel under some obligation, honor-bound as it were, to include that conversation in your report?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“But the fact is, you did include it, lieutenant. Would you explain why?”

“I’ll try, sir,” Docker said, and wondered whether he could explain it even to himself, let alone the major, whether he could find somewhere words to interpret and support his decision. But his thoughts went back... back to the time west of Namur, to Dog Battery’s shattered sections bivouacked in tents on a sodden meadow outside the town. Someone had been playing a guitar in a nearby tent, singing along with it, a railroad song about a pine box in a baggage car behind the coal tender, a pale young mother waiting down the line, the sounds rising and falling with the rain and wind beating against Docker’s tent and making noisy drafts in the big iron stove.

The battery commander. Captain Grant, slender, with thinning red hair and mild and thoughtful eyes, had pushed his way through the tent flaps, saying, “Well, your report’s okay as far as it goes. Docker, but I guess you know it’s not complete. You have any of Trankic’s juice nearby?”

“Sure thing, sir.” Docker had taken a canteen of black whiskey from his footlocker, placing it with two metal cups on the table beside the stove. “Help yourself, cap-tarn.”

“You look like you could use a belt yourself, Docker. Some rest area, right?” The captain had taken off his wet, shining helmet and damp overcoat, dumping them in the sling of a canvas chair. “Well, let’s get on with it, Docker. You know your report in its present state just won’t wash.”

The captain had taken a sheaf of typed pages from the pocket of his coat and dropped them on the table. Sitting down, he had stretched his muddy boots toward the stove and poured himself a drink. With the tip of his forefinger he then pushed the typed report toward Docker.

“According to this, you picked up a straggler named Jackson Baird the day after the Germans kicked off their counterattack in the Ardennes. All you add is that he died a week later helping to defend your gun position against an enemy tank.”

“Maybe that’s all I know for sure, captain.”

“I don’t think that’s good enough, Docker.” Captain Grant’s eyes were troubled; a shudder had run through his slender frame and he sipped the cold whiskey. “God, I’d rather be in a firefight where things are relatively simple. I’m bone-sick and tired of picking up the pieces afterward. I’ve heard the latrine rumors. Shorty Kohler took a swing at Baird, didn’t he? So let’s start there. What was that all about?”

“Christ, it could have been any of a dozen things. Kohler’s a good man to have with you in a brawl, but judgment and brains aren’t the first things you notice about him.”

“No? But Kohler was smart enough to know Baird was picked up about eighteen miles behind his own company. And knew he hadn’t got that far just taking a wrong turn in the dark—”

The sound of Elspeth Corey’s voice brought Docker back to the present, shattering memories of a mournful song mingling with the wind and rain, and the look of compassion in Captain Grant’s eyes.

“Lieutenant Docker, Major Karsh’s last two questions were: ‘Lieutenant, did you feel an obligation, honor-bound, as it were, to include that conversation in your report?’ Answer: ‘No, sir. I didn’t.’ ” After pausing to glance across her stenographic pad at Docker, Sergeant Corey continued reading in a light, neutral voice: “ ‘The fact is, you did include it, lieutenant. Would you explain why?’ ”