Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

“Yes, sir.”

“Private Solvis made it safely to the revetment and Private Gelnick did not. Correct?”

“Yes, sir. Gelnick hit the ground and froze. He was killed by shrapnel. Solvis took cover against the outer wall of the revetment.”

“Immediately after that attack did Private Solvis take cover inside the revetment?”

Since Karsh had received depositions from every member of the section, Docker realized he must already know the answers to these questions, but he said, “No, sir. Solvis did nothing to protect himself. He seemed dazed by concussion, and by what happened to Gelnick.”

“Lieutenant, would you characterize Solvis’ situation at that time as extremely dangerous?”

“Yes, sir, I would.”

“Exposed and vulnerable to an attacking enemy aircraft?”

Docker knew what the major wanted, and he had every intention of giving it to him, but he found the theatrical emphasis depressing because it cheapened his memories of that action on the hill, the sleeting winds, the sound of the guns, and waiting for the plane to come back, with nobody able to tell Solvis why it had happened to Gelnick... “Yes, he was very vulnerable, sir.”

“And then?”

“Baird went and got him, sir, grabbed him by the arm and hauled him inside the revetment.”

“Exposing himself to considerable danger in the process?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in the subsequent action — I’m referring to the shooting down of the aircraft — Baird also conducted himself in a soldierly fashion?”

“Yes, he certainly did, sir.”

Major Karsh made notes for a moment or so, and then, after carefully reading what he’d written, glanced at the other officers. “Gentlemen?”

Captain Walton said, “I’d like to clarify one point, lieutenant. When Baird went to Solvis’ aid, was he acting under your orders?”

“No, sir, he wasn’t.”

“Was he acting under anyone’s orders?”

“No, sir. He saw what had to be done and did it without regard to the danger and his own personal safety.”

Walton seemed pleased. He glanced at Karsh, eyes bright behind the old-fashioned glasses. “That does it as far as I’m concerned.”

Major Karsh nodded and checked the heavy silver watch strapped to his muscular wrist. “I want to make a point for the record before we recess for lunch. I consider it a privilege to include this information in the transcript... The plane shot down by Lieutenant Docker’s gun section on December twentieth was no ordinary aircraft. It was an ME-262, a jet-propulsion plane with defensive and offensive capabilities superior to any aircraft flown in this war. Army engineers recovered that prototype aircraft from the Mont Reynard mountain range. The identification of its potential gave the Allied Air Force valuable lead time to prepare a strategy against the more than two thousand ME-262S which flew missions during the closing stages of the Battle of the Bulge.” The major’s eyes had become intent, serious. “The men of Section Eight, all the men of that section, are to be commended for their courage and resourcefulness during that action.”

“Hear, hear!” Captain Walton said.

Karsh turned his smile toward the sergeant. “When you’ve typed up copies of this transcript, remind me that I want this particular section initialed by all three officers of the Board.”

The MP corporal pulled open the double doors of the ballroom and came to attention as Karsh, briefcase under his arm, strode toward him, his leather heels echoing on the parquet floors.

Walton collected his papers. The sergeant slipped her arms into her overcoat.

“Elspeth?”

She glanced at him. “Sir?”

“Sorry, just curious. About your name, I mean. Is it French, or what?”

“It’s British, captain. I was named after a great-aunt in London.”

“Cheerio and pip-pip, eh what? Elspeth, our mess is off limits to EMs, but as court secretary, I think we could shoe-horn you in.”

“Thank you, captain, but I’ve already made plans for lunch.”

“Well, suit yourself. Docker, if you’re tired of GI food, there’s a damn good brasserie, Le Chat qui Fum, near the flower market. That means ‘the cat who smokes.’ ”

“Hear, hear,” Docker said, and picked up his overcoat and left the ballroom.

“Surly bastard,” Lieutenant Weiffel said.

“He may have reason to be.” Walton looked at his watch. “Let’s chow up. Karsh said two o’clock.”

Docker had coffee and a sandwich at a riverside café, where old men in jackets over woolen sweaters stood at a zinc-topped bar drinking beer and brandy. When he returned to the ballroom of the Empire Hotel several minutes before two o’clock, Sergeant Corey was at her desk and the officers were seated at the conference table arranging their files and notes.

As Docker took his chair, Karsh said, “Lieutenant Weiffel? Do you have a question?”

“Yes, sir.”

Docker recognized the book opened in front of Weiffel as a U.S. Army Small-Arms Training Manual.

Weiffel said, “Lieutenant, in Private Farrel’s deposition, he states that he filed the sear off his M-1 rifle because you told him to. Is that right?”

“It wasn’t an order, sir. It was a suggestion.”

“Well, did you file the sear off your rifle? And if so, would you tell us why?”

“Yes. To convert it to full automatic.”

Weiffel leaned forward, a smooth roll of fat rising pinkly above his shirt collar, and put a finger on a paragraph of the Small-Arms Manual. With his other hand the lieutenant began stroking his soft scalp, a habit of his that struck Docker as curious because Weiffel always accompanied the gesture with an expression of surprise and alarm, as if he were freshly conscious of loss each time his hand strayed to his bald head. He said now, “I guess you know, lieutenant, that once you file that sear off, the rifle can’t be converted back to normal semiautomatic function?”

“I understand that, lieutenant.”

“By stretching of point, you could say that you destroyed government property without proper authority.”

“The purpose of making that modification was to get more firepower in the air.”

“And is that all that matters? The amount of ammo you can pump off?”

“Well, it sure as hell doesn’t do much good on the ground.”

“Lieutenant Docker,” Karsh said. “Some of these questions may strike you as irrelevant, but keep your answers pertinent and responsive. Is that clear?”

“Yes, major, but the lieutenant’s question made that kind of answer very difficult.”

Karsh nodded to Sergeant Corey. “Please read the last few exchanges.”

“Yes, sir.” She flipped back a page of her notebook and found the place with her pencil. “Lieutenant Weiffel’s question: ‘And is that all that matters? The amount of ammo you can pump off?’ Lieutenant Docker’s answer: ‘Well, it sure as hell doesn’t do much good on the ground.’ ”

“Thank you, sergeant... well, lieutenant, you may have a point, the query might be construed as ambiguous, but that wasn’t intentional—”

“Then I’ve got just one more question,” Weiffel said. “I’ll try to make it real clear. You say you didn’t order Private Farrel to file the sear off his rifle. But you suggested he do it. Have I got that straight now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant, did anyone order you to file the sear off your rifle?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, did someone suggest to you that you destroy government property?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who, lieutenant? And under what circumstances?”

“After Kasserine, a colonel on the division commander’s staff advised us all to file the sears off our rifles. He made it clear he didn’t want to be quoted on the subject but I’ll identify him if you think it will shed light on these hearings.”