Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

Docker opened the envelope and removed two sheets of ruled notebook paper, the kind Solvis used for his diaries. The overhead light was dim and obscured by the heavy layers of smoke. Docker turned the sheets of paper toward the bare bulb to make out Baird’s cramped handwriting.

He drank the brandy, following it with a sip of water, but the liquor didn’t reach the coldness in his stomach that had been gathering there since he had first glanced at the envelope with his name on it. Jackson Baird’s letter read:

“Dear Sergeant Docker:

I’m writing this without much light, the fire’s about out. So if you have trouble reading it, you’ll know why. I’ll give it to Dormund when I’m through and if he gives it to you in the next few days, well — that’s that.

I guess you knew from the beginning I was lying to you. I think Corporal Trankic did too. So it was a relief to talk to you tonight and finally tell you what happened. But I’d also like you to understand a little about why I lied. Maybe you can forgive me for that.

When I first saw German troops and heard artillery fire, it was like a nightmare. It was that kind of feeling, like something was coming for me and I couldn’t move a hand or foot, couldn’t even scream for help. Then I threw my rifle away and ran. The other guys in my company stayed at their posts. I’ve thought about them a lot, sergeant. In those first few days I thought I was the only soldier alive who was a coward. It was the loneliest feeling I ever had. The worst thing about it was that I felt it was so final, that there was nothing I could ever do to change it. And then you and the other men in the section helped me to settle down, to get hold of myself And I began to pray to God I’d get another chance. I realized a person just can V be ashamed of being afraid, you’ve got to get over it. Farrel and Sonny Laurel talked with me about it, and I didn’t feel so alone then. Kohler even told me to call him Shorty after a while.

But there was no room for weakness — no, that’s not the right word. When I was growing up, there was no interest in weakness. To be afraid of things — that was for other people, not the Bairds. And there was no interest either in losing or coming in second. If I won something, that was fine. But it was only at times like that — for instance, I was pretty good with horses and I always got top grades — that I felt like I was part of things. If my mother had lived, it might have been different. Maybe for my father, too. But if anything happens to me, sergeant, the only way my life will have any meaning is if he knows about me and can accept it. The guys who didn’t run deserve that. My father has got to live with what happened to me that first day, because I have. Then he should know I tried to get over it, tried to be a good soldier. That’s why I’m writing this to you. I didn’t know I could ever feel so sad. Maybe I’ll never see him again. It seems to me I wanted very little in my life. I still don’t think I asked for too much. I’m going to sign this now but I’m hoping you’ll never read it. If everything works out tonight, I think I’ll be able to speak for myself. But if it doesn’t, I’d like to ask one last favor, sergeant. Please, and this means something to me that you may not understand, I want you to make sure my father sees this letter. In some way, it could help him too, when he thinks about me.”

The signature, which he had written in full — Private Jackson Baird, United States Army — was close to the bottom of the page, letters small and crowded together.

Docker gave the letter to Trankic and sipped his drink.

His hands still trembled. Every word of the letter had sent a chill through him.

“Christ!” Trankic said, and looked up at Docker. “You know I had to hit him that time, Bull. You know there was nothing else to do...”

“Sure, Trank... you got a place to stay tonight?”

Trankic glanced at the girls seated along the bar, laughing with the soldiers. “I’ll find someplace. Where you going?”

Docker put Baird’s letter in the pocket of his tunic. “I’ve got to see a man.”

“Want one for the road?”

“Rain check on that.” Docker stood and pushed his way through the crowded bar to the street.

In the lobby of the Empire he asked for Major Karsh’s room number, took an elevator to the sixth floor and walked along a corridor whose decor had once been grand, lofty ceilings with original gold and silver wallpaper now faded and discolored, blending in softly with the worn carpets and stiff brocade draperies.

He stopped at the number the desk clerk had given him and knocked on the door.

Sergeant Elspeth Corey opened it. In the light from an overhead fixture he saw that she wore makeup and that her light hair was held back by a brown velvet ribbon. Noisy conversation sounded in the room behind her, and from the radio a chorus was singing, “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”

“Is Major Karsh here?” he said.

“Yes, he is, lieutenant. Shall I tell him you’re—”

“I’ll find him,” he said, and walked past her into the parlor of a suite furnished with worn velour chairs and sofas. The air was blue with cigarette smoke, sharp with the smell of gin and whiskey. A bar had been set up with card tables covered with a linen bed sheet. Several Belgian civilians were talking with Captain Walton and General Adamson’s aide. Colonel Rankin. At the bay windows, blacked out by coarse navy sacking, Karsh and Lieutenant Weiffel stood beside two matronly ladies and a newspaperman with a correspondent’s patch on the sleeve of his uniform. An enlisted man stood behind the bar with a towel over his shoulder.

Major Karsh turned from the group near the window and smiled when he saw Docker. He excused himself and crossed the room to join him, stopping to collect a fresh drink on the way and to exchange a nod with the civilians and Colonel Rankin.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve changed your mind, lieutenant,” he said. “The bartender’s name is Billy and what more does a thirsty guest need to know?”

“Thanks, but I don’t want a drink, major.”

Karsh looked closely at him. “What is it. Docker?”

“I’d like to talk to you alone, sir.”

“About what, if I may ask?”

“The Baird transcript, sir.”

Karsh glanced quickly, almost reflexively toward Colonel Rankin, and said casually, “I can’t imagine there’s anything more to say on that subject.”

“Not true, sir. Is there someplace we can talk?”

The colonel joined them, a dark brown whiskey and water held loosely in his hand. He looked deliberately from Karsh to Docker, his wide-set eyes seeming to gather them together in one quick, appraising glance.

“Lieutenant, I’ve been pleased with your cooperation,” Rankin said. “For a while I thought you were coming down with what we call ‘the myopia of junior officers.’ ” Rankin rattled the ice in the glass. “Do you get my meaning?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“I mean the nearsightedness that afflicts troops too close to the action. They have their eyes fixed on the ground so hard that they seldom see the horizon, the larger picture... Billy, get me another one of these.”

The barman gave the colonel a smiling nod and began pouring a fresh drink.

“Colonel, would you excuse us for a moment? We’ve got a couple of details to clear up,” Karsh said.

The colonel took a full glass from the barman, turned back to Karsh.

“Nothing myopic, I hope, because if there is, I want to know about it. We’ve had our procedural differences in this matter and I’ve deferred to you so far.” The colonel’s eyes focused on the drink in his hand. “You’ve done a good job, Karsh. Keep it that way.”