Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Weiffel said, and looked uncertainly at the major.

Karsh said, “If the colonel preferred to remain anonymous, so be it. Captain Walton?”

The captain opened a folder and leafed through it. “I’d like to inquire into a certain issue raised by Lieutenant Bart Whitter.” He nodded to Sergeant Corey. “There’s an h in that name, sergeant, W- h -i-t-t-e-r.” Adjusting his glasses, Walton ran his finger across the open file. “Lieutenant Whitter states that the then-Sergeant Docker and other members of his gun section unlawfully appropriated fifty-five gallons of ethyl alcohol from Utah Beach in Normandy—” He stared at Docker. “That was just after the Allied landing in France last year. What’s your comment on this portion of Lieutenant Whitter’s deposition?”

“It’s not true, sir.”

“You mean the lieutenant is mistaken? Or that he’s lying?”

“Probably a little of both, sir.”

The major stared at him over the frames of his heavy glasses. “Try to be more specific, lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir. In the first place. Lieutenant Whitter wasn’t on Beach Red that day. He was on a reconnaissance inland with Captain Grant, and a check of our battery records will show that. Secondly, we didn’t appropriate anything, for the simple reason that it was impossible to steal anything from Utah Beach. There was only one rule the beachmasters enforced: empty trucks hit the beach, full trucks leave the beach. We didn’t have a full truck so we added those jerry cans of alcohol to our load of tents and camouflage nets. The beachmasters were screaming at us through bullhorns to clear out by then, which we were glad to do because the beach was under fire from German fighters and artillery. A stray shot would have turned us into a bonfire. I submit with respect, sir, that Lieutenant Whitter didn’t know what the hell happened on that day. So someone must have told him what happened. If he believes it’s true, he’s mistaken. If not, he’s lying.”

There was a reluctant admiration in Karsh’s smile. “You make a good case, lieutenant. But isn’t it true that your section never made any attempt to deliver that alcohol to a medical unit, or turn it over to your own supply sergeant?”

“Yes, sir, that’s true.”

“And isn’t it true that Corporal Trankic employed his professional skills to convert that alcohol into a whiskey which your section used exclusively for its own consumption?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then isn’t it understandable how you and Lieutenant Whitter could draw opposite conclusions from basically the same set of facts?”

Docker hesitated because he didn’t know what Karsh was getting at, but he knew that the black whiskey wasn’t the issue here; Karsh had to be laying the groundwork for something else. With no notion of what that could be, Docker shrugged and said, “Yes, I can see how that could happen, sir.”

“Ultimately, of course, it might just be a matter of opinion. Would you agree with that, lieutenant?”

“I suppose I’d have to, sir.”

“I’m not trying to direct or influence your answers, lieutenant. The very purpose of this board is to examine such differences of opinion, gray areas, so to speak, and to try to establish a consensus of truth.”

Karsh removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “In regard to this black whiskey, lieutenant, you could be excused for thinking we’re pounding a very small point into the ground. But there’s a reason for it, as you’ll see.” Replacing his glasses, Karsh adjusted the frames and said, “Let’s go back to December fifteenth, the night before the Germans launched their offensive. You were at D Battery’s headquarters that night, lieutenant. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you tell us why?”

“Three men in my gun section had been killed in a booby-trapped home in the town of Werpen, sir. I was at the battery CP to check their personal effects with a clerk from Graves Registration.”

“Not very easy duty, I’m sure,” Karsh said. “Now, after that business was taken care of, you went on to the battery’s motor pool. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you tell us what took place at the motor pool that night?”

Docker sensed a change in the attitude of Karsh and the other officers. They regarded him with a new intensity, a sharpened and more aggressive interest. Until this point. Docker had been unable to make out any pattern in their questions. The dusty olive grove still looked deceptively pleasant and inviting, but he was battle-smart enough to know that the questions about the black whiskey and filing the sears off their rifles had been a smoke screen for what was coming.

“We’re waiting, lieutenant.” Karsh’s voice was quietly insistent.

“One of my men, Corporal Larkin, was there, sir. He’d been drinking and I thought he might be in trouble.”

“Was Larkin’s behavior normally a source of concern to you?”

“Not usually, sir. But when he was drinking, yes.”

“Would you say Larkin had a drinking problem?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Would you describe him as a heavy drinker?”

“I think I’d have to, sir.”

“Did you ever report Larkin’s drinking to your officers?”

“No, sir.”

“I see.” Karsh made a note on his pad. “Tell me this, lieutenant: how would you describe your relationship with Corporal Larkin?”

Docker had told himself to keep a grip on his temper, but he realized now that would be difficult because these officers with their legal phrases and uniforms that smelled of soap and starch were inquiring into the lives of sweating, shat-upon men who couldn’t defend themselves at hearings like these because they were lying dead in the mud and snow they had been told were fields of honor, so to speak, to borrow the major’s bullshit phrase... He found it hard to channel his thoughts; it was the same feeling of disarray he’d experienced when they’d questioned him about Baird, because his sharpest memories of that youngster were of his outsized overcoat, the muddy boots with frozen laces, and the thin wrists burned raw with wind and sleet. And so what was the truth of Larkin, what did he remember about him... the cough you could hear night and day around the guns, the dark smudge of whiskers, the irreverent anger, the way he laughed when he checked and raised? Or was it in his bullying uncles, or the sick worry he felt about his job and his wife Agnes and the daughter he hadn’t seen in two years? How could he sum up what else there had been (“ Describe your relationship, lieutenant...”) under the impersonal scrutiny of officers in a ballroom designed for string quartets and punch bowls full of wine and strawberries?

“Would you like Sergeant Corey to repeat the question, lieutenant?”

Docker let out his breath slowly. “I don’t need my memory refreshed about Larkin, sir. He was a good soldier and a good friend.”

“That’s a generous answer, lieutenant.” Opening a folder, Karsh said, “I will quote now from Corporal Haskell’s statement. ‘When Docker shot the lights out of that truck, I was scared as hell. There was no way to guess what he’d do next. With that gun and mad as he was, it was like he was out of his frigging head.’ ”

Karsh marked his place with the tip of a pencil. “Is that an accurate description of how you behaved that night, lieutenant?”

“No, sir, it’s not.”

“Then I’d be pleased to hear your version.”

“Larkin was drunk,” Docker said. “Haskell had fifty pounds on him and was working him over. I told him to stop. I also told Haskell’s mechanics to turn off the headlights of their trucks because they were violating blackout security.”