Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

Karsh pointed the tip of his cigarette at Docker. “Yes, Larkin, lieutenant. He’s somebody else who told you something incriminating about himself — I’m accepting for the moment what you said Baird told you. But take it a few steps further. You also said Larkin had never been involved in anything like black-marketing. The Germans were on their way. You gave him a mission to take a little Jewish girl to a safe place. Who’s to say he didn’t change his mind about the black market goods, decide not to go through with it after, or maybe even before, he delivered that little girl? Are we supposed to take the word of Bonnard, a known dealer in contraband and probably a German collaborator? Maybe Larkin was no more guilty of what even you, his good friend, thought he was, than Baird. I’m willing to consider that possibility, are you? You wanted to know what this so-called charade was all about. A fair shake for a couple of good soldiers... that’s what it was about... at least for me...”

That last was said mostly under his breath, but Docker caught it. He didn’t buy any more than before that that was all there was behind it, but still, the underlying point was the same one that had occurred to him during the hearings, and it wouldn’t go away. He picked up Karsh’s cigarette lighter, watched the light gleaming on the square black A painted on its side. He put it down, looked at Karsh. “Major, could I have another look at the statement I gave to Captain Grant?” Docker suddenly felt very tired. “The one we decided to call File A, I believe.”

“Of course,” Karsh said. “I’ll call Brabant Park and have a copy sent over by courier. May I ask why?”

“I’m not really sure. Can you understand that?”

“I think so. You want to be very sure. Isn’t that it?”

Docker nodded slowly. “I remember the words Baird used, and how his voice sounded. I understood the words, but I’m not sure now that he did.”

Karsh looked at him. “Do you want to make what you’ve just told me a part of the record, lieutenant?”

“Yes,” Docker said. “If I can get it straight in my own mind.”

“But why rip at yourself this way? I believe I know what you’re thinking, and writing briefs is my line of country. Why not let me put your thoughts in an amendment to File A? And to adjust the transcript of the hearings? I could have both documents delivered to your hotel within a few hours. You just sign them and we’ll put an end to this business.” Karsh stood and came around the table. “Doesn’t that make sense, lieutenant?”

Docker nodded because it did make sense, he thought, standing and pulling on his overcoat.

The major walked across the room with Docker, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder in a gesture of support and encouragement.

“I’m hosting a little party here at the hotel tonight,” he said. “Some of General Adamson’s people and a few local bureaucrats. Would you care to stop by after supper?”

“Thanks, but I’d better get back to my unit.”

“Then I’ll say good-bye to you here.” Karsh smiled, not the rictus — this time — and took the cigarette lighter from his pocket. “I saw you looking at this. A driver in our motor pool makes them up for us. Would you care to have one as a souvenir of the hearings?”

“Thanks, but why not give it to Sergeant Corey? I noticed that she smokes.”

Karsh nodded. “All right. I’ll do that tonight. With the lieutenant’s compliments.”

They had stopped under the tall arch of the double doors. Docker turned and looked back into the ballroom, where the light from the windows and chandeliers caught sparks in the golden ceiling and fell softly across the old carpets and empty tables and chairs.

He stepped back a pace, gave Karsh a salute and went down to the lobby and out into the snow blowing through the streets.

February 15, 1945. Hotel Leopold, Liège, Belgium. Thursday, 2200 Hours.

Buell Docker packed his gear that night after initialing a revised transcript of the board of inquiry hearings and an amendment to his original statement to Captain Grant. When he finally signed both documents under Lieutenant Weiffel’s careful eye, he had assisted in the transformation of Private Jackson Baird from a frightened recruit into a certified hero, the statement and transcript now only stressing Baird’s disregard for his personal safety, his bravery under enemy fire, and the fact that his death in the line of duty had been in the highest traditions of the service and reflected credit on his family, his country and the United States Army. Baird’s defection from his unit and subsequent attachment to Gun Section Eight was explained, defended and praised in a single sentence which. Docker thought, mostly demonstrated the major’s virtuoso forensic techniques:

“In the confusion and disruption created by the massive German counterattack in the Ardennes, Private Jackson Baird became separated from his unit, but displayed courage and resourcefulness in finding and attaching himself to a 40-millimeter gun section which had been battered by the first waves of the enemy attack and was retreating to regroup at a defendable position.”

Well, Docker had thought as he signed the last of the papers, who was to say it wasn’t at least “a defendable position”?...

Docker told the clerk at the desk to send someone to wake him at four in the morning. He put out clean linen and shaving gear and was mentally flipping a coin to decide whether or not to go out for a good-night bottle of beer when there was a knock on the door. He opened it and smiled when he saw Trankic’s wide bulk in the doorway.

“Come the hell in. But if you want a drink, we’ll have to go out.”

“Then what’re we hanging around here for?”

“There’s a bar down the block with pretty good brandy. Let me get a coat.”

They went down the stairs to the lobby and walked through heavy snow along a blacked-out street.

“What are you doing over here?”

“I brought some news for you. Bull.”

“Anything wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong.”

“Who did you leave in charge of your section?”

“Well, Solvis and Farrel are looking after things, showing the new guys how everything works.”

They pushed through the doors of a bar crowded with soldiers. The air was heavy and noisy with cigarette smoke and accordion music and bursts of talk and laughter. At a table in the rear, as far from the music as they could get, they ordered brandies and water.

Trankic wore a fatigue uniform and the rim of his helmet shaded his broad, weather-rough cheeks and worried eyes.

“So what is it?” Docker said.

“Blame that ginney Linari and that flannel-mouth Kohler if you want to blame anybody.” Trankic took a worn and soiled envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of Docker. “Dumb fuckers, they told Dormund he’d get his ass in a sling for not giving it to you after Baird got racked up.”

Docker glanced at the envelope, which was addressed to him in block capitals.

“This is from Baird?”

Trankic nodded and sipped his brandy. “He wrote it the night before that tank hit us. Gave it to Dormund to give to you if anything happened to him. So naturally, Dormund forgot about it. I should have made him a new fucking head out of that tin can after all. Linari and Kohler found out he had it and got riding him about it. Told him he’d do time in Leavenworth, shit like that. He got so scared, he hid it in his duffel bag. Shorty finally told me about it and that’s how I got hold of it. Just last night.”

The waiter put two brandies on the table and stood watching them until Trankic gave him a hundred francs.