Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

“And when they didn’t, you shot out those lights?”

“Yes sir.”

“Wouldn’t you say that was a rather drastic overreaction?”

“I wouldn’t argue the point, sir,” Docker said, “but it got the job done.”

Karsh looked at him, his fingers drumming on the table. Captain Walton leaned forward to say something, but Karsh checked him. “We won’t digress now, captain.” He studied the open folder. “I’ll quote again from Haskell’s statement, lieutenant. ‘After he shot out the lights. Docker asked me how far I wanted to push this thing, how far I wanted to take it. I’d busted up Larkin, sure, because he’d called me things no white man would take. I got nothing to apologize for, but I’ll admit the way Docker looked scared me. Maybe he wouldn’t of used that gun, but plain, frigging common sense told me to back off. I ain’t sorry I did just that.’ ”

Karsh looked inquiringly at Docker. “Would you care to comment on Corporal Haskell’s testimony?”

“For the record, sir, I didn’t threaten him with a gun. I bolstered the forty-five before I asked him how far he wanted to take things.”

“And that’s your only comment?”

“Except, sir, that for a man with nothing to apologize for, I’d say Haskell’s done a pretty damn good job of doing it.”

The rictus flared on Karsh’s face but no other emotion showed in his expression as he closed Haskell’s folder. “We’ll recess for ten minutes, gentlemen.”

At Karsh’s words, the MP corporal came to attention and opened the doors of the ballroom. Sergeant Corey glanced at her watch and recorded the time in her notebook.

“Lieutenant Docker, this information is from the statement Captain Travolta took from a Paul Bonnard.” Captain Walton scanned an open file and absently stroked his wilted mustache. “According to Paul Bonnard, Corporal Larkin told you about the cellar full of liquor and foodstuffs at the castle near your gun position. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Larkin mentioned it to me, sir.”

Walton settled back in his chair, the bright overhead lights coating his glasses, and Docker saw in his expression then, in the expectant complacency of his smile, the outline of the land mines hidden in those still-quiet olive groves.

“Why, lieutenant? Or more to the point, what did Corporal Larkin have in mind?”

Docker remembered the bitterly cold morning they had talked about it, the two of them close to the fire in the cave on Mont Reynard, the wind pounding the tarpaulin over the entrance and Larkin coughing painfully, his face smudged with dirt and creased with bitterness, jabbing a finger at him for emphasis and talking of his job at Railway Express and Hamlin’s modest proposal to build decompression chambers for returning GIs...

Walton was saying, “Did you understand my question, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. Larkin wanted to sell those supplies on the black market. He wanted to use one of our trucks to haul them to Liège.”

“Let’s get this straight... Corporal Larkin asked you for permission to use one of Section Eight’s trucks. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him to forget it, sir.”

“Would you be more specific? You told him to forget about asking your permission? Or to forget about selling those supplies on the black market? Or what?”

“I told him to forget the whole business, sir.”

“But since he obviously didn’t, I’d like to know something else. What did Corporal Larkin offer you in return for the use of that truck?”

Docker saw that Walton’s pencil was poised over his notebook, and that Weiffel and Major Karsh were watching him intently. Even Sergeant Corey was looking at him now, frowning slightly.

“What did he offer you, lieutenant?” Walton repeated.

“Larkin offered me half of his share.”

“How much would that have amounted to?”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t think he did either.”

“You’ll excuse me, but I find that difficult to believe,” Walton said. “Are you telling us that Larkin was prepared to go AWOL from his gun section, prepared to commit a felony without any notion of what kind of money was involved?”

“His guess was the goods would bring something around eight or nine thousand dollars.”

“You recall that now. Good. Did you inspect those German supplies, by the way?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you can’t tell us whether the corporal’s figure was realistic or not.” Walton studied his notes. “According to Paul Bonnard again, there was a black market operator involved in this deal, a Belgian named Gervais. Did you know him?”

“No, sir.”

“So what we have is a three-way split between Larkin, Bonnard and Gervais.” Walton looked up at Docker. “And the deal was that you’d get half of Corporal Larkin’s share, right?”

“I’ve already told you—”

“You told us lots of things, lieutenant. Right now just answer my question. You were supposed to split with Corporal Larkin. Right?”

“I’ve testified he suggested that to me and that I told him to forget it.”

Walton continued as if he hadn’t heard this. “Let’s see what we’re talking about in terms of dollars and cents. We’ll accept Larkin’s estimate for that purpose, make it an even nine thousand.” The captain scratched figures on his legal pad, drew a line under them and jotted down the results of his calculations. A small smile appeared under his mustache. “A three-way split of nine thousand would give Larkin three thousand and you fifteen hundred. You want to check my arithmetic, lieutenant?”

“There’s no need, captain. Lm sure you’re qualified to divide three into nine.”

Major Karsh said sharply, “In your interests. Lieutenant Docker, I will ask the recording secretary to strike that last remark.”

Sergeant Corey nodded and drew a line across her notebook and initialed the margins.

Walton bent forward and wrote rapidly on his legal pad, his expression sullen. He didn’t look up when he said, “You took no action against Corporal Larkin, lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“Even though you knew he had entered into a criminal conspiracy with Paul Bonnard and a black market dealer? Even after he had offered you a bribe to take part in that conspiracy?”

“What the hell do you think I should have done, captain?”

Captain Walton’s face flushed red and he threw his pencil on the table. “I’m not going to take any more of your insubordination. Docker.” His voice was rising. “Under the Articles of War, you had not only the authority but the responsibility to put him under arrest.”

“We were in a combat situation, we’d already suffered casualties. I needed every man I had on the guns. I couldn’t spare Larkin and another soldier standing guard over him.”

Major Karsh said quietly, “I’d like to interrupt for a moment. Lieutenant, when your section reestablished contact with your battery, did you tell Captain Grant about Corporal Larkin’s deal with Bonnard and Gervais?”

“Yes, sir.”

Karsh removed his glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief, obviously taking his time about it, and allowing the commonplace sights and sounds in the old ballroom, the shadows on the brocade walls, the stir of pencils and papers to ease the palpable tension between Docker and Walton.

Then he said, “Tell me, lieutenant, was Corporal Larkin usually involved in the black market?”

“No, sir. But like practically everyone, he traded cigarettes and chocolate for wine or brandy, things like that.”

“Yet now he was getting in much deeper.” Karsh held up his glasses to catch the light from one of the tall windows. “How do you account for that?”