Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

“I’m afraid not, sir. The testimony I’ve given on two other occasions is obviously unsatisfactory, for some reason. I think I’ve got a right to know who objected to it and why.”

“We’ll be getting to that, lieutenant.” Major Karsh picked up a stack of manila folders and looked steadily at Docker, the rictus smile showing again. “In regard to the points you’ve made, let me say this. No one has found your testimony unsatisfactory. But in all the depositions I have in my hand, you’re the only witness who states categorically that Jackson Baird deserted his post under enemy fire. Now, you may be right. But considering the grave nature of your testimony, the serious reflection it casts on that young soldier, the distress it will cause his family and friends, our function here, lieutenant, is to check and double-check all the putative evidence and facts. This board’s responsibility is to inquire into the validity of your general testimony, to determine whether you might have been unwittingly inaccurate in your conclusions, or mistaken or forgetful in certain substantive areas. Is that clear, lieutenant?”

“I’m not exactly sure, sir.”

“Then I’ll put it this way. The issue before the board, quite simply, is to determine how reliable a witness you are, lieutenant.”

The major dropped the stack of folders on the table, and the sound was unexpectedly loud in the faded elegance of the old ballroom.

“We’ll recess now for ten minutes.” Karsh removed his heavy glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Until eleven hundred hours.”

Docker smoked a cigarette in the lobby outside the ballroom and looked through the bay windows at streams of American and British military trucks clogging the boulevards. The river was brilliant in the sunlight as occasional gusting winds rippled the glasslike surface of the water. A river gull, blurred and indistinct against the white skies, arced and settled and became instantly visible on a dark stone piling.

He knew it was pointless to speculate on where Karsh’s questioning might take them. Or how much time they would spend (or waste) trying to reconstruct a past whose significant substance, reality, existed in immediate fear and anger and passion and not the approximate truth of remembered emotions and conclusions gleaned from dates and statements neatly clipped together in administrative folders.

When he turned away from the window. Docker saw that Sergeant Elspeth Corey was seated on a leather divan against a brocaded wall of the lobby. She looked up and gave him a brief, tentative smile, but before Docker could react she turned and put out her cigarette with several nervous taps in a sand-filled urn beside the sofa.

“Lieutenant Docker, let’s commence with the day your section picked up Private Jackson Baird.”

Major Karsh arranged his folders in a tidy formation on the conference table and drew a line under a date on his legal pad. Putting on his glasses, he adjusted them carefully with his fingertips.

“That was December seventeenth, lieutenant.”

“Excuse me, major. Shall I take this?”

“I’m sorry, sergeant. Yes, this is for the record. Lieutenant, the seventeenth of December was the second day of the Ardennes offensive. Your section, Section Eight, D Battery, the Two hundred sixty-ninth Automatic Weapons Battalion, was proceeding in the direction of Malmédy.” Karsh glanced up at Docker, the quick smile twisting his face. “We’ve pieced together your route of march and certain other details from the depositions given by you and other members of your section.”

The major returned to his notes. “Now, would you tell us, lieutenant, in your own words, of your first encounter and impressions of Private Jackson Baird.”

“Yes, sir.” Docker’s thoughts turned back to those hours of coldness and fear, the German troops materializing in white forests, the section’s retreat through the mountains, the bursts of shrapnel spraying the sides of their trucks.

“Baird hooked on to our second truck,” he said. “Solvis told me later he looked close to shock. Solvis offered him a cigarette and a drink but Baird didn’t want anything.”

“Excuse me, major,” Captain Walton said.

“Yes?”

“Lieutenant, what kind of drink are you referring to?”

“Whiskey, sir.”

“Would that be Section Eight’s notorious black whiskey, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. Solvis had a canteen of it.”

“Did everybody in the section have a supply of it?”

“Some of them didn’t care for it, sir.”

Walton nodded and glanced at the major. “I have no further questions at this time, sir.”

“Very well,” Karsh said, seeming. Docker wondered, to be hiding his impatience with Walton? “Go on, lieutenant.”

“Later that day, I called a halt to check our bearings and maps. That was the first time I talked to Baird. He’d taken his helmet off, and I told him to put it back on and keep it on. I asked him what happened to his rifle and dog tags. He told me he’d lost them. Said the rifle had been knocked from his hands by an artillery blast and that he’d lost his dog tags when the chain caught and snapped on a tree branch.”

“Did he explain why he had left his position?”

“Yes, sir. Baird said he heard someone shouting to fall back.”

Karsh made a quick note, obviously waiting for Docker to continue, but when Docker remained silent Karsh removed his glasses and said, “Lieutenant, I’ve asked you to tell us about this sequence of events in your own words. I’d like to know what you said to him, what his responses were, something about his emotional state and so forth. I’d appreciate those details, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, sir. Baird told me that his company was on the left flank of the Hundred and sixth. He’d been on guard a couple of hundred yards from his company headquarters. It was dark when the Germans attacked. Baird said it was like a nightmare. His exact words were that ‘it was like being caught in a tornado.’ ”

“Let’s go back a bit. Did he tell you who gave him orders to withdraw?”

“He wasn’t sure about that. His company commander was a Captain Dilworth, I believe that’s right. His lieutenant was named Russo. He also mentioned his sergeant, whose name, I think, was Greene. But Baird said there was so much wind and artillery fire he couldn’t tell whether it was the captain or Lieutenant Russo or the sergeant yelling at them to get out of there.”

“And what did Jackson Baird tell you he did after acting on those orders?”

“He told me that he had lost contact with the other men in his company. He headed west then and joined our section the next day.”

“You had no reason to question any of the details of his story?” Karsh looked up at Docker. “The missing dog tags and rifle, the unidentified voice ordering retreat, all of this struck you as reasonable at the time?”

“Yes, sir, it did.”

“I see.” Karsh made a check mark on his legal pad. “And so, after that first conversation with Jackson Baird, you accepted him as a member of your section, assigned him duties and so forth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In fact, you provided him with a rifle, didn’t you, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wouldn’t you describe that as an act of faith in Jackson Baird’s bona fides?”

“Not exactly.”

The major looked mildly exasperated. “Then tell me, lieutenant, how would you describe this display of trust and confidence in a youngster who was a total stranger to you?”

“If I trusted anything, sir, I guess it was my own judgment.”

“Very well, let’s move on to another area. I’d like to discuss” — the major glanced at his notes — “the action in which Private Samuel Gelnick was killed. I’ll recap those events, lieutenant, and if I’m in error, please correct me. Private Gelnick was running toward the gun revetment with Private Solvis when the ME-262 attacked your position. Is that correct?”