Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

Major Karsh said, “Lieutenant, do you understand what I’m getting at?”

“Yes, sir. I believe I do.”

“Then I would appreciate an answer, a full and responsive answer...”

They had discussed it for another hour or so that night. Docker and Captain Grant, the canteen catching reflections from the stove as they tipped whiskey into their cups... “I’ve got reports of my own to write,” Grant had said, his voice tired. “Johnny Weyl from Section Three, the kid who did magic tricks at camp shows in basic. I’ll be writing his family tonight. He’s not going home, and neither is Corporal Hooper from Headquarters or Sonny Laurel or Lieutenant Longworth or Lenny Rado. But those men died with their outfits, at their gun positions or following orders.”

Captain Grant had stood then, collecting his helmet and overcoat. Picking up Docker’s report, he had studied it, shook his head, then dropped it back on the table. “You’d better complete it, lieutenant. Would it help if I made it a direct order?”

“No, sir, it wouldn’t.”

“I’m not surprised. You want to protect the boy and I can understand that, but I’ve found that at times like this, nothing does a better job than the truth.”

“That’s not quite it, sir. I want to protect him, but I’m not sure of the best way to do it. I’ve been turning over just one question these last three or four hours, which is what in hell Baird would want from me.”

Grant had checked his watch. “I’ve got a guard mount to inspect, Docker, I’ll be back for your report in about an hour—”

In a mildly exasperated tone Major Karsh was saying, “Lieutenant, I’m trying to be patient but I must insist you answer my question. To repeat it — perhaps unnecessarily — I asked you to explain to me why you included a particular conversation between yourself and Jackson Baird in the report you filed with Captain Grant.”

“There were two reasons, sir. Captain Grant specifically asked me for a complete account of Section Eight’s positions and activities during the period we were out of communication with the battery. Secondly, I felt that Jackson Baird himself would have wanted the facts known.”

Karsh’s dark eyebrows rose. “Did Baird tell you that in so many words?”

“No, sir.”

“Then your opinion is simply a subjective evaluation, right, lieutenant?”

“I guess you could call it that, sir.”

“Your subjective evaluation, then, is that Jackson Baird, for some curious reason, wanted to be posthumously indicted as a coward and deserter. Is that about it, lieutenant?”

“Except that it wasn’t for what you call a curious reason, major. It was for a damned good reason. It was because Baird respected courage, as only a man who’s lost it and got it back can. I put all the facts down because... Baird’s memory deserves it. I also think he’d have wanted his family to know everything he went through.”

“I don’t mean to be abrupt, lieutenant, but let’s confine ourselves to weighable, measurable issues. There’s little to be gained in getting mired down in cocktail-party psychoanalysis. Let’s move on now to your second report. Would you tell us, again in your own words, the nature and origin of File B?”

“Yes, sir. I wrote that report on January twenty-second at the direction of Captain Travolta. The captain was interested specifically in Jackson Baird. He wanted a detailed account of where and how we picked him up, how he conducted himself in our section. Captain Travolta also took depositions from other members of Section Eight. But since he told us not to discuss the interviews among ourselves, I have no knowledge of any statement but my own.”

“Lieutenant, I’m going to proceed as candidly as possible in this matter,” Karsh said. “There’ll be no surprises, and hopefully no unexpected developments. Captain Travolta was assigned to the preliminary stage of this investigation by the Judge Advocate’s section of First Army. This board has copies of all the statements the captain received from members of your gun section. Captain Travolta also sent a list of pertinent questions to Corporal Schmitzer at the Twenty-third Base Hospital at Orleans, but his doctors decided he wasn’t up to answering them at this time. Something about a nervous disorder...”

Karsh glanced at his notes and said, almost casually, “I should also advise you we have statements from your platoon commander. Lieutenant Bart Whitter, and from personnel at Battery D’s headquarters, namely motor pool corporal Cleve Haskell.”

“Then you probably know more about this business than I do, sir.”

“That may well be the case,” Karsh said quietly.

Docker could feel a subtle, disturbing change in the atmosphere of the room, a vibration that sounded under the smooth surface of the major’s legalistic, nicely turned phrases. It was a sense of incongruity that alerted him, the same feeling he’d gotten from the stately but seedy ballroom: a golden ceiling and ornate moldings trying to harmonize with shattered windows and cracked plaster, drafts raising spools of dust on fine old carpets. Something didn’t hang together; Docker was beginning to sense a glinting edge beneath the polite questions and formal manners.

It was a soldier’s reaction, a knowledge learned in fear and pain that had told him (not always in time) that such-and-such dusty road through the olive grove was too quiet to be trusted.

And something else. The major’s smile, he realized, wasn’t a smile at all, but a reflexive grimace, a rictus that creased his cheeks and bared his teeth, but never touched his dark eyes.

Docker studied the other officers at the table and their ribbons — good conduct medals, marksman’s badges, theatre ribbons without battle stars.

Walton, with his defeated mustaches, was, Docker guessed, the back-slapping type who savored the trappings of a war — the masculine patina of uniforms, the spit and polish and music of parade grounds, who wanted the affection of his men more than their respect... (“a rowdy old boy from Tennessee, unbroken, un-everything, best goddamn jeep jockey in First Army”).

Lieutenant Weiffel was short and bald except for black tufts of hair ringing his soft scalp, and fat, with rolls of flesh bulging over his collar and forming ripples under his tunic when he leaned forward to scribble his notes. Docker had no particular reading on Weiffel, just his tendency toward obesity that was evidence of indulgence, which he noted as he would the weakness in any enemy position.

Major Karsh was the dominant force at the conference table. In his late thirties, Docker judged, with a dark and coarsely grained complexion, thick, black hair, deeply set eyes, coldly watchful under jutting brows, a face like a blunt scimitar with that deceptive rictus occasionally flaring over his sharply cut features.

Docker looked thoughtfully at the three officers, then addressed himself to Karsh. “May I ask a question, sir?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’m wondering if the major would tell me the purpose of these hearings.”

Karsh said deliberately, “The purpose of these hearings, lieutenant, is to establish the truth about certain events which are presently subject to a variety of interpretations.”

“Major, if those certain events relate to Jackson Baird, I’ve already given two written depositions: one to Captain Grant, the other to Captain Travolta. Frankly, I don’t see what more I can contribute.”

“Let me clarify something, lieutenant. This isn’t a court-martial, it’s a board of inquiry. Our function is to review the matters included in the depositions taken to date. To inquire into those events and, hopefully, to shed fresh light on them. When we’re through, full transcripts will be returned to the senior officers who have overview responsibilities for this board, Colonel George Rankin and Major General Walter Adamson. They’ll determine what further action, if any, is to be taken. Is that much clear, lieutenant?”