Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

“I can only make a guess, sir.”

“And what would that be?”

“Larkin was worried about a job when he got home. He was married, had a young daughter and wanted a stake any way he could get it.”

Karsh replaced his glasses and said casually, “By the way, lieutenant, did you mention to Captain Grant that Larkin offered you some fifteen hundred dollars to come in on this black market deal with him?”

The question caught Docker off guard — he knew from the way the officers were watching him that Karsh had meant it to. It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that nothing in the conduct of these hearings was casual or unpremeditated; the three officers had their lines and cues like actors on a stage, and Docker realized that he and the recording sergeant were the only players on the scene without scripts.

“The question was, did you mention Larkin’s offer to your battery commander?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because it didn’t seem to make any difference, sir. Larkin was dead and that was the end of it, I thought.”

“I can see how you might think so. But as things stand, we have only your word that you were not an active and willing partner in Corporal Larkin’s black market plans. Isn’t that about the face of it, lieutenant?”

But before Docker could reply, the double doors were pushed open and the MP corporal called out in a parade-ground voice, “Atten- shut! .”

A two-star general, accompanied by a bird colonel, entered the room, trench coats over their arms, rows of medals and theatre ribbons bright against the olive drab of their Ike jackets.

“At ease, gentlemen,” the general said, and with a glance at Sergeant Corey, who was also standing, “you, too, young lady. Major, excuse the interruption. Colonel Rankin and I had a meeting with SHAEF’s G-2 people, they’re billeted here, so I thought we’d look in and see that everything’s moving along smooth and fast. The operative word being ‘fast,’ major.”

“We’re making good progress, General Adamson.”

“If it’s not pressing you unduly, I’d like a firm date.”

“We’ll be through tomorrow night, I think, sir.”

Docker studied General Adamson and Colonel Rankin, remembering that Karsh had said these two officers had the overview responsibility for First Army’s board of inquiry. General Adamson was of middle height and years, thin and wiry with a pale complexion and eyes alert with humor and intelligence. Docker had heard colorful stories about Adamson from men who’d served under him: that he drank four inches of whiskey neat each night before bed and that he had once called Patton a fucking idiot to his face and that Patton had laughed and said if he had to be an idiot it was some consolation at least to be a fucking idiot.

Colonel Rankin was in his early forties, a head taller than the general, with the whalebone hips and stomach of a cavalry man, and gray eyes set so wide apart in his weather-rough face that his sweeping glances seemed instantly to embrace the whole room and everyone in it.

While the general conferred with Karsh, Colonel Rankin studied Docker with deliberate appraisal, then said, “I’m Colonel Rankin. I’m just as interested as the general in seeing a transcript.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you know that General Jonathan Baird was an instructor of mine at the Point?”

“I didn’t, sir,” Docker said.

“General Baird taught a review course in math and artillery.” The colonel continued to assess Docker. “I knew the general’s older son, the one who’s in Italy now. But I never met his youngest boy, Jackson. They’re a fine family.”

General Adamson turned from Karsh and looked with interest at Docker’s campaign ribbons. “You’ve been around a bit. Were you with my division in North Africa?”

“No, sir, I was with the First.”

“Terry Allen, eh?” The general smiled. “Another damn good bunch. George, let’s let these people get back to work.”

The MP corporal presented arms, and when the senior officers were gone, the doors swinging shut on them, Karsh looked through the windows, where a fresh snowfall streaked the gloomy afternoon shadows.

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I think everyone could use a cup of coffee. Shall we take a break for ten minutes?”

When the hearings resumed. Major Karsh settled himself in his chair and turned to Sergeant Corey. “Sergeant, would you please read the last exchanges between me and Lieutenant Docker?”

“Yes, sir.” Using the tip of her eraser, the sergeant flipped back a page of the notebook and began reading. “Lieutenant Docker: ‘Larkin was dead and that was the end of it, I thought.’ Major Karsh: ‘I can see how you might think so, but as things stand we have only your word that you were not an active and willing partner in Corporal Larkin’s black market plans. Isn’t that about the face of it, lieutenant?’ ”

“Thank you, sergeant.” Karsh looked at Docker. “Well, lieutenant?”

“As you say, sir, you have only my word for it.”

“I don’t think it’s quite that simple.” Karsh took another folder from his briefcase and opened it. “There are, unfortunately, these gray areas that tend to blur perspective. Here, for example, is another. In your deposition and Corporal Trankic’s there’s mention of a child—”

Adjusting his glasses, the major ran his pencil down a typewritten page. “Yes. Margret Gautier. Lieutenant, you took that child from her aunt’s home in Lepont and delivered her to nuns at the Convent of the Sacred Heart.” Karsh looked over his glasses at Docker. “Why, lieutenant?”

“We had learned that a German tank was heading toward the village. The child is Jewish. It made sense to get her out of there.”

“The child’s aunt” — Karsh checked his notes again — “Denise Francoeur, she agreed with that decision?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s see if I’ve got the sequence right. Corporal Trankic learned from the Lepont transmitter that a German tank was coming your way. And told you that?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“And you in turn told the child’s aunt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, this is important. Whose decision was it to take that child away from the village?”

“It was mine, sir.”

“Not her aunt’s, lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“You were that convinced that the mission of this eighty-ton German tank was to track down and execute one nine-year-old child?”

Docker thought of the slight weight of the little girl in his arms, an angel’s head in a gutter and the jagged streak of cracks in the stone walls of the church.

“I’m not sure what I was convinced of, sir. I knew her father had been shot as a hostage and that her mother was Jewish.”

“I’m sorry, lieutenant. I didn’t get that,” Sergeant Corey said.

Docker was surprised by the intensity in her expression, her eyes dark in her pale face.

“I said that the girl’s father had been shot by the Germans and that her mother was Jewish.”

“Well, I grant you had reason for concern,” Karsh said, “but then you turned the child over to Corporal Larkin, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why, lieutenant? That is to say — why Corporal Larkin?”

“Because I thought he could handle the job, sir. He was the best driver we had.”

Karsh underlined several words on his legal pad. “Lieutenant, what was it you told us Larkin wanted from you?”

Docker could see what was coming now as clearly as the events of a nightmare in slow motion. “He wanted the use of a truck, sir.”

“More precisely, he wanted your permission to use a truck, correct?”