Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

“Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant, you may have acted in accordance with your best instincts, but it’s also true that you did provide Corporal Larkin with the one thing he needed to make his scheme work, the one thing he was prepared to pay dearly for, namely, your permission to use one of your section’s trucks.”

It seemed to Docker that there would be no point in adding futile words to the silence that stretched away through the cold ballroom, and isolated him in his memories.

“And the Convent of the Sacred Heart is situated on a road to Liège. Is that correct, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

Turning up his collar against the wind and snow flurries, Docker walked through the dark flower markets, where old men and women in shawls and bulky jackets stood beside counters that were stocked with assortments of pine boughs and small heaps of wizened tulip and hyacinth bulbs.

The blackout curtains had been pulled into place on the frosted windows of the shops, and the sidewalks were empty except for occasional British and American soldiers. He caught snatches of their talk as they went by him and heard the impatient horns of military trucks clogging the streets.

The hazy darkness of the city and the pinched look of the markets matched Docker’s mood perfectly — he couldn’t keep his thoughts away from Matt Larkin, nor stop examining the doubts Karsh had raised in his mind. There had been no time to sort them out at the hearings, with the questions coming more and more rapidly and Karsh abruptly turning the thrust of the investigation to his and Trankic’s second interrogation (“interrogation” was now the major’s word) of Baird, when they’d questioned him about the town of Peekskill and its landmarks and about West Point — where Karsh had interrupted him in mid-sentence saying, “Lieutenant, since you have testified that Baird’s first account of himself was reasonable and straightforward, why did you decide a second interrogation was necessary?” Docker had almost lost the slippery grip on his temper then, trying to explain the fear and chaos created by Operation Greif. It wasn’t helped when Walton added to the transcript, “for the record, that recent information indicates that Operation Greif did not exceed the normal scope of a ruse de guerre, and that its effect has probably been exaggerated by troops in the field...”

“Larkin and Lieutenant Longworth will be very pleased to hear about that, sir,” Docker had said, at which point Major Karsh, with a pained expression, had recessed the hearings with the comment that the board, on reconvening, would examine what he considered to be “the grayest area in the entire spectrum of these inquiries...”

Gray. Docker was beginning to buy that color, at least as it applied to the after-the-fact issues of right and wrong, of “morality,” and thinking of the winds on the castle hill, he remembered the German officer demanding his surrender who had said, “Most history is shaped by the communiques of victorious generals.”

Still, Docker believed there were “facts” that couldn’t be dismissed by cynical distortion or by claiming that all truths were merely relative, and he needed those facts now as an anchor in the turbulence the hearings had stirred up in him.

Fact: thousands of American soldiers had died in the Ardennes campaign. Another fact: on December 26th at 1700 hours, the siege of Bastogne had been broken by General Patton’s Fourth Armored Division. And Sonny Laurel and Jackson Baird and Sam Gelnick had died on Mont Reynard. Their deaths weren’t a matter of opinion, they didn’t make up one of the major’s euphemistic little gray areas. And only hours after their deaths gale-force winds swept the fogs and snows from the Ardennes and Allied planes were flying from bases in England and France to fill the skies above Germany like tiny silver crosses...

A youngster came from an alley and ran along beside him, grinning and pantomiming the action of puffing on a cigarette. He was raggedly dressed, thin to the point of emaciation, his teeth stained with neglect, but a survivor’s hope flashed in his eyes, a last-chance smile strained his young-old face.

“Please, GI,” he said, panting to keep up with Docker. “You got smoke for Benny, hey, GI?”

Docker stopped and took a pack of cigarettes from his overcoat. He had about a dozen left, so he parceled out six for the boy, who clutched them in a hand like a monkey’s paw and ran off into the dark street, laughing and waving the cigarettes in triumph above his head.

And that boy still living and determined to go on living, that was no gray area. It was another fact, by God.

February 14, 1945. Hotel Empire, Liège, Belgium. Wednesday, 1800 Hours.

“We will turn our attention at this time to the matter of Jackson Baird’s alleged desertion,” Major Karsh said when the hearings were resumed at six o’clock that evening.

“I propose to summarize certain events which occurred in your gun section, Lieutenant Docker, on Friday, December twenty-second from” — Karsh consulted his notes — “from approximately twelve noon, when your men first sighted the German tank, until about ten-thirty that night when, according to your testimony, Baird confessed to you that he had deserted his post under fire on December sixteenth, the first day of the Ardennes offensive.”

The major unstrapped his watch and placed it on the table.

“Since we will be at this for some time, I think we might have some coffee. Sergeant, would you mind?”

Elspeth Corey poured coffee into thick china mugs, her movements fluid and economical, but when she glanced at Docker, half-smiling and making a tentative gesture with a cup, he shook his head.

Karsh thanked her and placed his cup on a blotter beside his briefcase. “Lieutenant, we’ll start at the time Baird pointed his rifle at you and other members of your section. First. Did you think he was ready to use it?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“Then you did not feel threatened by his actions?”

Docker hesitated. “No, I didn’t think he’d fire. But that was only a guess.”

“A guess based on what, lieutenant?”

“For one thing, sir, he never took his rifle off safe.”

“Under the circumstances, I’d say that was pretty observant of you. So you obviously thought he was bluffing. Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Karsh picked up a file from the table and looked through it briefly.

“When you became aware of that German tank, the Tiger Mark II, you decided to pull your cannon and make a run for it. Baird told you that would be unwise. In your own deposition, lieutenant, you’ve explained his reasons very cogently. Since they’re part of the record, I won’t repeat them unless you want me to.”

“There’s no need for it, sir.”

“But you didn’t act on his proposals?”

“Not immediately, sir.”

“And that’s why Baird pointed his rifle at you? To make you listen to him?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“To emphasize that point, I’m going to read a portion of Harlan Farrel’s deposition.” Karsh took another file from his briefcase and ran his finger down a page until he found the paragraph he was looking for, then said, “I’m quoting Private Harlan Farrel now. ‘Baird begged Docker to listen. He said something like — just let me finish, or hear me out—. Whatever it was, he just wanted to explain the problem. And I remember him saying to Docker — then you can have the damn gun .’ ”

Karsh looked at Docker. “Did Baird say that to you, lieutenant?”

“Yes, that’s what he said, sir.”

“Speculation is speculation, but I’d like to ask you a question, lieutenant. You don’t have to answer if you don’t care to. But in your judgment, what would have happened if you had ignored Baird’s advice?”