Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

“I intend to, colonel.” Karsh took Docker’s arm and escorted him past the Belgian civilians into an adjacent bedroom where, after snapping on the lights, he closed the door with a decisive gesture and looked coldly at Docker.

“All right, what’s on your mind, lieutenant?”

“The transcript isn’t complete yet,” Docker said. “It doesn’t speak for Jackson Baird. That’s what we’ve got to talk about, major.”

“We don’t have to talk about one goddamn thing. We’ve talked enough, too much.” Karsh’s voice was tight with exasperation. “And by God you had better understand this... the final transcript of those hearings — repeat, final, complete with decorative sealing wax and appropriate endorsements and signatures, including yours, lieutenant — is on a plane this very moment for SHAEF in Paris, and from there it will go by special courier to General Jonathan Baird at MacArthur’s headquarters at Leyte. And nobody is going to change one sentence, word or comma in that transcript, now or at any time in the future. Do I make myself clear, Docker?”

“I think you’d better read this,” Docker said, and handed him Jackson Baird’s letter.

Karsh’s eyes swept across the page like guns tracking enemy positions. When he finished reading, he walked around the room in an aimless circle, pausing occasionally to press his fingers tightly against his temples. Finally he stopped and started at the letter again, frowning and shaking his head slowly, as if not quite able to believe what was in front of his eyes.

“All right, I’ve read it,” he said, and looked grimly at Docker. “Are you familiar with Jackson Baird’s handwriting?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve seen it before. He wrote a detailed memo on the defense of our position on Mont Reynard—”

Karsh cut him off. “All right, all right. You’re sure this is his handwriting?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Then supposing you tell me just what you expect me to do with this letter.”

For an instant Docker didn’t understand what Karsh meant; the literal sense was clear, but he was puzzled by the tone of dismissal, a sarcasm in Karsh’s voice.

“I should think that’s pretty obvious.”

“If it were obvious, I wouldn’t have asked the question.”

“Then you’re either making a debater’s point, major, or you’re pretty stupid—”

“Now watch yourself. Docker. We aren’t a pair of hack drivers exchanging dim-witted philosophies in a Third Avenue bar. You’re a buck lieutenant and I’m a major, and I would strongly advise you not to forget that—”

“I expect you’d also like me to forget those gray areas we discussed, major . Or do you even remember them now? We aren’t talking about a matter of opinion, or a matter of viewpoint. What you’re holding in your hands now is the truth. So why do you need me to tell you what to do with it?”

Karsh pointed a finger at him. “I’m warning you for the last time. Docker, I won’t tolerate—”

The door opened and Captain Walton looked into the room, making quick, silencing gestures with his hands. “Major, the colonel suggests you gentlemen tone it down.”

“Yes, right... tell the colonel there’s nothing to worry about, we’ll be through shortly.”

When Walton closed the door, Karsh’s attitude changed abruptly. He sighed and sat down heavily on the arm of an overstuffed chair, his hands hanging at his sides. “I’m sorry. Docker,” he said. “I’m not Army, for Christ’s sake, I’m civilian with a law degree from Columbia who was writing briefs for labor unions until he got salutations a few years back from his draft board. An officer and gentleman by an act of Congress.”

He sighed again, wearily, and stared at Baird’s letter. “Where in hell did you get this?”

After Docker explained, Karsh stood and paced the floor again, finally said quietly but intently, “I want you to listen to me. Docker, and I advise you to listen carefully, although you’re a smart man and may already have gotten the idea, but here it is from the horse’s mouth... there was only one conclusion, one acceptable judgment from the board of inquiry convened to investigate the matters relating to Private Jackson Baird. Your original statement to Captain Grant — never mind your good motives — started the wheels turning, you must know that. The report went up to First Army, then to Corps and Group and SHAEF and on its way it was read by many high-ranking officers who were classmates or close personal friends of Major General Jonathan Baird. Your report then went to General Baird himself, and he demanded an investigation into the circumstances of his boy’s death. Not a whitewash. Docker, an investigation. But the a priori determination of those same personal friends and classmates was that extenuating circumstances must have contributed to Jackson Baird’s alleged desertion under fire, and it was agreed that the function of the board was to discover those circumstances, and it was further agreed that whatever other facts were developed would be irrelevant to the primary mission of the board.”

“Are you telling me that Baird’s letter is irrelevant?”

“Goddamn it, listen to me. I tried as forcefully as I knew how, Docker, to dramatize all those extenuating circumstances.” There was an entreaty in Karsh’s voice then, a clear appeal for understanding, which had begun in that earlier unofficial discussion after the hearing. “I’m talking about the boy’s emotional condition, the physical battering he received, the other gray areas you now seem to think have turned to black or white. I attempted to draw parallels between Larkin’s black market deals, the sears you filed from your rifles, even your goddamned black whiskey, trying my damndest to make you see the ambiguities of those situations, hoping to God you would understand that no man should try to function as a judge when the judicial arena is a battlefield... I gave you the opportunity to exonerate your friend Larkin, and Jackson Baird, without any mental reservations. And, damn it, that’s exactly what you did, Docker.”

“I know what I did, and I think I know why I did it,” Docker said. “But I’d like to hear what your reasons were, major.”

Karsh sat down again on the arm of a chair, put a cigarette in his mouth but didn’t light it. He looked at Baird’s letter and smoothed its surface with his fingertips. “I can give you several explanations for what I did,” he said quietly. “They range from cynicism to plain self-interest to what you could call a vague idealism. First, I wanted to find that boy as pure and innocent as driven snow. Docker. When those hearings were over, I hoped to announce with full judicial authority that Jackson Baird was an authentic American hero and patriot, because” — his smile flared — “because... maybe it sounds corny... they were all heroes to me, Docker. Whether they sacked oats in Fort Riley or pushed a pencil in a supply depot five thousand miles from the front. Do I have to tell you that anybody wearing the uniform that went up against the Nazis was special to me?... And secondly, since the case of Jackson Baird was so threaded with contradictions and question marks, I saw no purpose in returning findings that would only do a disservice to the discipline and morale of the whole Army. And third, I knew there was only one acceptable judgment, and trying to be a good soldier, I went out and got it.”

“Your last point makes sense, I think the rest is a lot of bullshit, major—”

“Damn it. Docker, I won’t—”

“You’re forgetting that Sam Gelnick was also one of your special people who wore the uniform that went up against the Nazis. Yet you let that asshole Whitter characterize him without reprimand as an incompetent Jew-boy, and you didn’t back away from the rest of Whitter’s garbage until I proved he was lying. So just how far were you and Rankin prepared to go to get the verdict you think General Baird and his friends wanted?”