Soldiers of ’44

Chapter Twenty-Nine

February 14, 1945. Liège, Belgium. Wednesday, 0830 Hours.

Liège, capital of the Belgian province of the same name — on the Meuse in the heart of Walloon country — is an industrial center of several hundred thousand inhabitants.

The city (with Antwerp) had been a top priority target for German V-1 and V-2 rockets during the Battle of the Bulge. When that offensive was finally checked and contained, Liège remained a functioning city, although many of its boulevards and buildings had been shattered by months of rocket and artillery fire.

A number of main streets were blocked off to traffic, and the walls of most hotels and office buildings had been shored up with wooden scaffoldings and stacked rows of sandbags. A nighttime blackout was in effect, but the essential activities of Liège continued to flourish; shops and markets opened at dawn and the city’s avenues funneled traffic from the Channel ports toward First Army’s supply depots. The Army’s administrative offices were now being transferred closer to the increasingly stable front but ranking officers were still quartered in a complex of buildings on the outskirts of the city in an area known as Brabant Park.

On a cold, sunny morning, Buell Docker drove into Liège and parked on a crowded street near the Hotel Leopold, a massive gray stone building which had been requisitioned by First Army as a billet and mess for transient officers. The hotel straddled an intersection of avenues near the railway station and central flower markets.

At the reception desk an elderly clerk looked at his orders and directed Docker to a room on the third floor, where a wrought-iron balcony crusted with soot-grained snow gave him a view of river bridges and church steeples.

The room was warm, but the water in the bathroom taps was as cold as if it had been piped over open ground from a freezing river. He showered quickly, standing next to a sputtering radiator to towel himself down, then opened his duffel bag to change into a clean uniform and an Eisenhower jacket with the faded outline of his sergeant’s stripes on the sleeves. The gold bars on the shoulders had been lent by Captain Grant when Docker was commissioned in the field to replace Lieutenant Longworth...

Gun Section Eight was relieved from its position on Mont Reynard in the last week of December and posted to a temporary staging area west of Namur. In the last six weeks, Docker and Trankic (now sergeant) were occupied writing reports on their losses in personnel and equipment, answering interrogatories from Graves Registration and supervising the instruction of recruits assigned to the section and platoon from redeployment depots.

Each member of Section Eight (except Schmitzer) had been queried by Air Force Intelligence to collate their impressions about the speed, tactics, performance and silhouette patterns of the ME-262 jet aircraft the section had shot down over Mont Reynard on the afternoon of December 20th.

Docker was asked by Captain Joe Grant to prepare a report on the movements of his section (casualties, actions engaged in, exact route of march) during the thirteen days the unit had been out of communication with Battery and Battalion headquarters.

Three weeks later Captain Richard Travolta from First Army’s Judge Advocate’s staff visited Dog Battery at the staging area west of Namur to take depositions from the section regarding the action and casualties on Mont Reynard, the specific thrust of his inquiry focusing on the deaths of privates Samuel Gelnick and Jackson Baird.

As a result of these interviews and statements — despite them or because of some lack in them, Docker wasn’t sure which — Docker had been ordered to report to Liège on this date, February 14th, 1945, to give additional testimony at a board of special inquiry convened by First Army...

A knock sounded now and a woman’s voice called something in French that he couldn’t make out. He opened the door and a thin maid looked inquiringly at him and made exaggerated gestures of using a scrubbing board. Docker pointed to his duffel bag and told her he’d appreciate it if she’d take care of his laundry.

A male voice hailed him from the end of the corridor. “Lieutenant Docker? We’ve been expecting you.”

An officer with captain’s bars on his jacket stood in the open door of the elevator. “I’m Captain Walton. Traffic here’s a pain in the ass, so let’s get moving.”

“Be right with you, sir.” Docker picked up his overcoat and joined the captain. They rode to the first floor in silence and walked out to the curving driveway where a PFC waited for them beside a covered jeep.

When they pulled away from the curb, the captain said, “Major Karsh runs a shop so tight your asshole will be squeaking. I hope you had breakfast.”

“I’m fine, sir,” Docker said.

“Good, real good. You field soldiers never stand short, I guess.”

Captain Walton was in his early thirties, slender and tidily put together with a thin, blond mustache that drooped like wilted feathers at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were round and blue behind steel-rimmed glasses, which lent an old-fashioned look to his narrow, youthful face.

“Hey, isn’t it about time for the goddamn spurs and bat?”

Docker glanced at him in surprise but saw that Walton was speaking to his driver, who was leaning on the horn as he maneuvered the jeep through columns of big army trucks.

The driver laughed. “Bat and spurs ain’t half of it. I’m giving every damn horse I got his head this morning.”

“My driver’s a rowdy old boy from Tennessee,” Walton said. “Unbroken, uncivilized, un-everything you can think of, but still the best goddamn jeep jockey in the whole First Army...” Walton stroked his mustache. “I’m sure, lieutenant, you’re curious about these hearings, but Major Karsh will spell that out for you. He runs a tight ship, like I said. Nobody at the wheel but the skipper. You get the idea?”

Docker nodded. He got the idea.

First Army’s board of special inquiry convened at ten A.M. on February 14th in the ballroom of the Hotel Empire, whose entrance faced tree-lined boulevards and a brilliant curve of the Meuse River. An MP corporal was posted at double doors that opened from the mezzanine into a ballroom. The corporal wore a class-A uniform and helmet liner and stood at parade rest, rifle canted away from his body, back and shoulders erect against the carved panels of the tall doors.

The MP presented arms when Docker and Captain Walton entered the ballroom. The captain walked to a conference table where two officers were seated, a second lieutenant and a major. Smaller desks flanked this table which was piled with briefcases, manila folders and legal tablets.

On one desk stood an Army field telephone and a tray with coffee makings. A WAC sergeant sat at the other, notebook and jar of pencils in front of her.

Captain Walton joined the major and lieutenant and waved Docker to a chair facing them.

“You’ve met Captain Walton,” the major said. “I’m Major Sydney Karsh. This is Lieutenant Clement Weiffel. We are the presiding officers of this board of inquiry, which has been convened by the Judge Advocate’s staff of First Army. Our recording secretary is Sergeant Elspeth Corey.” The major removed his heavy, horn-rimmed glasses. “We’ll be ready to begin in a few minutes, lieutenant, so meanwhile, make yourself comfortable.”

As the major distributed manila-bound files to his aides, Docker looked around the ballroom. Many of the windows had been splintered by bomb blasts and were now crisscrossed with patchwork designs of heavy tape. Wooden scaffoldings stood braced against the beige walls. In some places the heavily damaged plaster was covered with canvas. Decorative crystals had been removed from the three huge chandeliers and naked bulbs cast a glaring light across the gold-leafed ceiling. Clusters of sofas and chairs were draped with white sheets, and a shiny parquet floor was scattered with faded old carpets.

The WAC sergeant would have been attractive, Docker thought, if it weren’t for the severity in her expression. She was simply doing a job, a slim, blond secretary in Army uniform, but something in her gathered energies suggested a different image to Docker — perhaps a sleek cat with all of its attention concentrated on a mousehole.

When Major Karsh said, “Lieutenant Docker, I’d like to explain—” she began recording with precise pencil strokes, but Karsh glanced at her and said, “Sergeant Corey, this is an informal preliminary statement, so don’t bother taking it down.” A smile flared and faded quickly on his face. “When I need a transcript, I’ll nod to you.” The major’s smile came again, as if to underscore the amiability of his instructions. “There’ll be a good deal of casual discussion,” he said, “and there’s no point in burdening you with all of it.”

“Yes, Major Karsh.” When she shifted her position and lowered the notebook, the overhead light shifted and moved like quicksilver along her slim and neatly muscled legs. Docker wondered how she’d be in the sack, wondered if she’d come to attention and salute and request permission to merge with the infinite or haul her ashes, as Kohler would put it... but he also told himself he was being defensive, that he resented these freshly groomed and well-tailored officers with their legal pads and judgmental frowns and gestures.

Major Karsh glanced at Docker, another smile sharpening his features.

“Lieutenant Docker, let’s start by fixing the time element. The chronology of events. On what date was Jackson Baird killed?”

“December twenty-third, sir.”

“On what date did he join your section?”

“December seventeenth, sir.”

“He was with your unit just one week then?”

“Yes, sir. One week.”

“So it follows that your knowledge of Jackson Baird and his background, and whatever insights you have of his character and personality and so forth, were gained in that seven-day period from December seventeenth to December twenty-third. Correct, lieutenant?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Let’s go forward a bit. After Private Jackson Baird was fatally wounded, your gun section remained on Mont Reynard until you made contact with your battery headquarters. What date was that, lieutenant?”

“December twenty-eighth. Lieutenant Whitter, our platoon commander, arrived then and gave us orders to withdraw toward Namur.”

Karsh said, “And that was when you learned of the deaths of Lieutenant Longworth and Corporal Larkin?”

“Yes, sir.”

Major Karsh checked the notes he’d made on his pad. “I think that gives us the chronological bookends, so to speak... Young Baird was picked up by your section on the seventeenth, killed by enemy fire on the twenty-third, contact with your battery reestablished on the twenty-eighth.”

Karsh glanced at Captain Walton and Lieutenant Weiffel. “Any questions about this so far?”

They both shook their heads.

“Very well.” The major looked through the stack of files in front of him, selected one and pushed it across the table toward Docker. Again his quick smile.

“Would you take a look at this, lieutenant?”

Docker opened the manila folder, which contained two files of typewritten pages.

“You recognize those documents, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

Major Karsh nodded to Sergeant Corey, who adjusted her note pad and prepared to take down their exchanges.

“Lieutenant, please tell us in your own words their origin and nature.”

“These are two separate reports, one of which I made at the request of our battery commander, Captain Joseph Grant, and the other at the request of an officer from the Judge Advocate’s staff of First Army, Captain Travolta.”

“What’s the date of the first report, lieutenant?”

“December thirtieth, 1944.”

“And the second?”

“January twenty-third, 1945.”

“Then for the record, we’ll call the report written December thirtieth. File A. And the report written the twenty-third of January, File B. Is that clear enough, lieutenant?”

“Yes, it’s clear enough.”

Major Karsh glanced at the sergeant. “We’ll go off the record for a moment. Lieutenant, I want this hearing to proceed as casually and efficiently as possible. But I also expect you to observe the conventions of military courtesy at all times. In answering, you’ll address the members of the board either as ‘sir’ or by their appropriate ranks. Is that clear, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may proceed. Would you like the sergeant to refresh your memory?”

“I’d appreciate that, sir.”

She glanced at her notebook. “Question: ‘You recognize these documents, lieutenant?’ Answer: ‘Yes, sir.’ Question: ‘Lieutenant, tell us in your own words their origin and nature.’ ”

She looked at Docker. “Is that sufficient, lieutenant?”

“Yes, that’s fine... sergeant.”

Docker glanced from the files to Major Karsh. “Sir, after our section was ordered to pull back from Mont Reynard, I had a briefing session with Captain Grant at the battery CP outside Namur. He told me then to write a full and detailed report covering the time Section Eight had been cut off from Battery Headquarters.”

“Did Captain Grant suggest to you what to include — or not include — in that report. Lieutenant?”

“No, sir. His instructions were to make it as complete as possible.”

“I see. And you followed those instructions?”

“I did my best, sir. The report includes an account of the German plane we shot down — an ME-262, a jet aircraft, a model and design we’d never seen before. And it also includes the fact that a radio signal Corporal Trankic sent from a Resistance transmitter in Lepont had been picked up by Eighth Air Force station near Brussels. File A also covered the section’s casualties, and the details of a combat action with a German tank, a Tiger Mark II.”

The major looked steadily at Docker. “And File A included, did it not, the report of a conversation between you and Jackson Baird during which, according to your testimony, Baird told you he had deserted his post during an enemy attack on the first day of the Battle of the Bulge?”

“Yes, sir, that was in the report.”

“Lieutenant, did you feel under some obligation, honor-bound as it were, to include that conversation in your report?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“But the fact is, you did include it, lieutenant. Would you explain why?”

“I’ll try, sir,” Docker said, and wondered whether he could explain it even to himself, let alone the major, whether he could find somewhere words to interpret and support his decision. But his thoughts went back... back to the time west of Namur, to Dog Battery’s shattered sections bivouacked in tents on a sodden meadow outside the town. Someone had been playing a guitar in a nearby tent, singing along with it, a railroad song about a pine box in a baggage car behind the coal tender, a pale young mother waiting down the line, the sounds rising and falling with the rain and wind beating against Docker’s tent and making noisy drafts in the big iron stove.

The battery commander. Captain Grant, slender, with thinning red hair and mild and thoughtful eyes, had pushed his way through the tent flaps, saying, “Well, your report’s okay as far as it goes. Docker, but I guess you know it’s not complete. You have any of Trankic’s juice nearby?”

“Sure thing, sir.” Docker had taken a canteen of black whiskey from his footlocker, placing it with two metal cups on the table beside the stove. “Help yourself, cap-tarn.”

“You look like you could use a belt yourself, Docker. Some rest area, right?” The captain had taken off his wet, shining helmet and damp overcoat, dumping them in the sling of a canvas chair. “Well, let’s get on with it, Docker. You know your report in its present state just won’t wash.”

The captain had taken a sheaf of typed pages from the pocket of his coat and dropped them on the table. Sitting down, he had stretched his muddy boots toward the stove and poured himself a drink. With the tip of his forefinger he then pushed the typed report toward Docker.

“According to this, you picked up a straggler named Jackson Baird the day after the Germans kicked off their counterattack in the Ardennes. All you add is that he died a week later helping to defend your gun position against an enemy tank.”

“Maybe that’s all I know for sure, captain.”

“I don’t think that’s good enough, Docker.” Captain Grant’s eyes were troubled; a shudder had run through his slender frame and he sipped the cold whiskey. “God, I’d rather be in a firefight where things are relatively simple. I’m bone-sick and tired of picking up the pieces afterward. I’ve heard the latrine rumors. Shorty Kohler took a swing at Baird, didn’t he? So let’s start there. What was that all about?”

“Christ, it could have been any of a dozen things. Kohler’s a good man to have with you in a brawl, but judgment and brains aren’t the first things you notice about him.”

“No? But Kohler was smart enough to know Baird was picked up about eighteen miles behind his own company. And knew he hadn’t got that far just taking a wrong turn in the dark—”

The sound of Elspeth Corey’s voice brought Docker back to the present, shattering memories of a mournful song mingling with the wind and rain, and the look of compassion in Captain Grant’s eyes.

“Lieutenant Docker, Major Karsh’s last two questions were: ‘Lieutenant, did you feel an obligation, honor-bound, as it were, to include that conversation in your report?’ Answer: ‘No, sir. I didn’t.’ ” After pausing to glance across her stenographic pad at Docker, Sergeant Corey continued reading in a light, neutral voice: “ ‘The fact is, you did include it, lieutenant. Would you explain why?’ ”

Major Karsh said, “Lieutenant, do you understand what I’m getting at?”

“Yes, sir. I believe I do.”

“Then I would appreciate an answer, a full and responsive answer...”

They had discussed it for another hour or so that night. Docker and Captain Grant, the canteen catching reflections from the stove as they tipped whiskey into their cups... “I’ve got reports of my own to write,” Grant had said, his voice tired. “Johnny Weyl from Section Three, the kid who did magic tricks at camp shows in basic. I’ll be writing his family tonight. He’s not going home, and neither is Corporal Hooper from Headquarters or Sonny Laurel or Lieutenant Longworth or Lenny Rado. But those men died with their outfits, at their gun positions or following orders.”

Captain Grant had stood then, collecting his helmet and overcoat. Picking up Docker’s report, he had studied it, shook his head, then dropped it back on the table. “You’d better complete it, lieutenant. Would it help if I made it a direct order?”

“No, sir, it wouldn’t.”

“I’m not surprised. You want to protect the boy and I can understand that, but I’ve found that at times like this, nothing does a better job than the truth.”

“That’s not quite it, sir. I want to protect him, but I’m not sure of the best way to do it. I’ve been turning over just one question these last three or four hours, which is what in hell Baird would want from me.”

Grant had checked his watch. “I’ve got a guard mount to inspect, Docker, I’ll be back for your report in about an hour—”

In a mildly exasperated tone Major Karsh was saying, “Lieutenant, I’m trying to be patient but I must insist you answer my question. To repeat it — perhaps unnecessarily — I asked you to explain to me why you included a particular conversation between yourself and Jackson Baird in the report you filed with Captain Grant.”

“There were two reasons, sir. Captain Grant specifically asked me for a complete account of Section Eight’s positions and activities during the period we were out of communication with the battery. Secondly, I felt that Jackson Baird himself would have wanted the facts known.”

Karsh’s dark eyebrows rose. “Did Baird tell you that in so many words?”

“No, sir.”

“Then your opinion is simply a subjective evaluation, right, lieutenant?”

“I guess you could call it that, sir.”

“Your subjective evaluation, then, is that Jackson Baird, for some curious reason, wanted to be posthumously indicted as a coward and deserter. Is that about it, lieutenant?”

“Except that it wasn’t for what you call a curious reason, major. It was for a damned good reason. It was because Baird respected courage, as only a man who’s lost it and got it back can. I put all the facts down because... Baird’s memory deserves it. I also think he’d have wanted his family to know everything he went through.”

“I don’t mean to be abrupt, lieutenant, but let’s confine ourselves to weighable, measurable issues. There’s little to be gained in getting mired down in cocktail-party psychoanalysis. Let’s move on now to your second report. Would you tell us, again in your own words, the nature and origin of File B?”

“Yes, sir. I wrote that report on January twenty-second at the direction of Captain Travolta. The captain was interested specifically in Jackson Baird. He wanted a detailed account of where and how we picked him up, how he conducted himself in our section. Captain Travolta also took depositions from other members of Section Eight. But since he told us not to discuss the interviews among ourselves, I have no knowledge of any statement but my own.”

“Lieutenant, I’m going to proceed as candidly as possible in this matter,” Karsh said. “There’ll be no surprises, and hopefully no unexpected developments. Captain Travolta was assigned to the preliminary stage of this investigation by the Judge Advocate’s section of First Army. This board has copies of all the statements the captain received from members of your gun section. Captain Travolta also sent a list of pertinent questions to Corporal Schmitzer at the Twenty-third Base Hospital at Orleans, but his doctors decided he wasn’t up to answering them at this time. Something about a nervous disorder...”

Karsh glanced at his notes and said, almost casually, “I should also advise you we have statements from your platoon commander. Lieutenant Bart Whitter, and from personnel at Battery D’s headquarters, namely motor pool corporal Cleve Haskell.”

“Then you probably know more about this business than I do, sir.”

“That may well be the case,” Karsh said quietly.

Docker could feel a subtle, disturbing change in the atmosphere of the room, a vibration that sounded under the smooth surface of the major’s legalistic, nicely turned phrases. It was a sense of incongruity that alerted him, the same feeling he’d gotten from the stately but seedy ballroom: a golden ceiling and ornate moldings trying to harmonize with shattered windows and cracked plaster, drafts raising spools of dust on fine old carpets. Something didn’t hang together; Docker was beginning to sense a glinting edge beneath the polite questions and formal manners.

It was a soldier’s reaction, a knowledge learned in fear and pain that had told him (not always in time) that such-and-such dusty road through the olive grove was too quiet to be trusted.

And something else. The major’s smile, he realized, wasn’t a smile at all, but a reflexive grimace, a rictus that creased his cheeks and bared his teeth, but never touched his dark eyes.

Docker studied the other officers at the table and their ribbons — good conduct medals, marksman’s badges, theatre ribbons without battle stars.

Walton, with his defeated mustaches, was, Docker guessed, the back-slapping type who savored the trappings of a war — the masculine patina of uniforms, the spit and polish and music of parade grounds, who wanted the affection of his men more than their respect... (“a rowdy old boy from Tennessee, unbroken, un-everything, best goddamn jeep jockey in First Army”).

Lieutenant Weiffel was short and bald except for black tufts of hair ringing his soft scalp, and fat, with rolls of flesh bulging over his collar and forming ripples under his tunic when he leaned forward to scribble his notes. Docker had no particular reading on Weiffel, just his tendency toward obesity that was evidence of indulgence, which he noted as he would the weakness in any enemy position.

Major Karsh was the dominant force at the conference table. In his late thirties, Docker judged, with a dark and coarsely grained complexion, thick, black hair, deeply set eyes, coldly watchful under jutting brows, a face like a blunt scimitar with that deceptive rictus occasionally flaring over his sharply cut features.

Docker looked thoughtfully at the three officers, then addressed himself to Karsh. “May I ask a question, sir?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’m wondering if the major would tell me the purpose of these hearings.”

Karsh said deliberately, “The purpose of these hearings, lieutenant, is to establish the truth about certain events which are presently subject to a variety of interpretations.”

“Major, if those certain events relate to Jackson Baird, I’ve already given two written depositions: one to Captain Grant, the other to Captain Travolta. Frankly, I don’t see what more I can contribute.”

“Let me clarify something, lieutenant. This isn’t a court-martial, it’s a board of inquiry. Our function is to review the matters included in the depositions taken to date. To inquire into those events and, hopefully, to shed fresh light on them. When we’re through, full transcripts will be returned to the senior officers who have overview responsibilities for this board, Colonel George Rankin and Major General Walter Adamson. They’ll determine what further action, if any, is to be taken. Is that much clear, lieutenant?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. The testimony I’ve given on two other occasions is obviously unsatisfactory, for some reason. I think I’ve got a right to know who objected to it and why.”

“We’ll be getting to that, lieutenant.” Major Karsh picked up a stack of manila folders and looked steadily at Docker, the rictus smile showing again. “In regard to the points you’ve made, let me say this. No one has found your testimony unsatisfactory. But in all the depositions I have in my hand, you’re the only witness who states categorically that Jackson Baird deserted his post under enemy fire. Now, you may be right. But considering the grave nature of your testimony, the serious reflection it casts on that young soldier, the distress it will cause his family and friends, our function here, lieutenant, is to check and double-check all the putative evidence and facts. This board’s responsibility is to inquire into the validity of your general testimony, to determine whether you might have been unwittingly inaccurate in your conclusions, or mistaken or forgetful in certain substantive areas. Is that clear, lieutenant?”

“I’m not exactly sure, sir.”

“Then I’ll put it this way. The issue before the board, quite simply, is to determine how reliable a witness you are, lieutenant.”

The major dropped the stack of folders on the table, and the sound was unexpectedly loud in the faded elegance of the old ballroom.

“We’ll recess now for ten minutes.” Karsh removed his heavy glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Until eleven hundred hours.”

Docker smoked a cigarette in the lobby outside the ballroom and looked through the bay windows at streams of American and British military trucks clogging the boulevards. The river was brilliant in the sunlight as occasional gusting winds rippled the glasslike surface of the water. A river gull, blurred and indistinct against the white skies, arced and settled and became instantly visible on a dark stone piling.

He knew it was pointless to speculate on where Karsh’s questioning might take them. Or how much time they would spend (or waste) trying to reconstruct a past whose significant substance, reality, existed in immediate fear and anger and passion and not the approximate truth of remembered emotions and conclusions gleaned from dates and statements neatly clipped together in administrative folders.

When he turned away from the window. Docker saw that Sergeant Elspeth Corey was seated on a leather divan against a brocaded wall of the lobby. She looked up and gave him a brief, tentative smile, but before Docker could react she turned and put out her cigarette with several nervous taps in a sand-filled urn beside the sofa.

“Lieutenant Docker, let’s commence with the day your section picked up Private Jackson Baird.”

Major Karsh arranged his folders in a tidy formation on the conference table and drew a line under a date on his legal pad. Putting on his glasses, he adjusted them carefully with his fingertips.

“That was December seventeenth, lieutenant.”

“Excuse me, major. Shall I take this?”

“I’m sorry, sergeant. Yes, this is for the record. Lieutenant, the seventeenth of December was the second day of the Ardennes offensive. Your section, Section Eight, D Battery, the Two hundred sixty-ninth Automatic Weapons Battalion, was proceeding in the direction of Malmédy.” Karsh glanced up at Docker, the quick smile twisting his face. “We’ve pieced together your route of march and certain other details from the depositions given by you and other members of your section.”

The major returned to his notes. “Now, would you tell us, lieutenant, in your own words, of your first encounter and impressions of Private Jackson Baird.”

“Yes, sir.” Docker’s thoughts turned back to those hours of coldness and fear, the German troops materializing in white forests, the section’s retreat through the mountains, the bursts of shrapnel spraying the sides of their trucks.

“Baird hooked on to our second truck,” he said. “Solvis told me later he looked close to shock. Solvis offered him a cigarette and a drink but Baird didn’t want anything.”

“Excuse me, major,” Captain Walton said.

“Yes?”

“Lieutenant, what kind of drink are you referring to?”

“Whiskey, sir.”

“Would that be Section Eight’s notorious black whiskey, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. Solvis had a canteen of it.”

“Did everybody in the section have a supply of it?”

“Some of them didn’t care for it, sir.”

Walton nodded and glanced at the major. “I have no further questions at this time, sir.”

“Very well,” Karsh said, seeming. Docker wondered, to be hiding his impatience with Walton? “Go on, lieutenant.”

“Later that day, I called a halt to check our bearings and maps. That was the first time I talked to Baird. He’d taken his helmet off, and I told him to put it back on and keep it on. I asked him what happened to his rifle and dog tags. He told me he’d lost them. Said the rifle had been knocked from his hands by an artillery blast and that he’d lost his dog tags when the chain caught and snapped on a tree branch.”

“Did he explain why he had left his position?”

“Yes, sir. Baird said he heard someone shouting to fall back.”

Karsh made a quick note, obviously waiting for Docker to continue, but when Docker remained silent Karsh removed his glasses and said, “Lieutenant, I’ve asked you to tell us about this sequence of events in your own words. I’d like to know what you said to him, what his responses were, something about his emotional state and so forth. I’d appreciate those details, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, sir. Baird told me that his company was on the left flank of the Hundred and sixth. He’d been on guard a couple of hundred yards from his company headquarters. It was dark when the Germans attacked. Baird said it was like a nightmare. His exact words were that ‘it was like being caught in a tornado.’ ”

“Let’s go back a bit. Did he tell you who gave him orders to withdraw?”

“He wasn’t sure about that. His company commander was a Captain Dilworth, I believe that’s right. His lieutenant was named Russo. He also mentioned his sergeant, whose name, I think, was Greene. But Baird said there was so much wind and artillery fire he couldn’t tell whether it was the captain or Lieutenant Russo or the sergeant yelling at them to get out of there.”

“And what did Jackson Baird tell you he did after acting on those orders?”

“He told me that he had lost contact with the other men in his company. He headed west then and joined our section the next day.”

“You had no reason to question any of the details of his story?” Karsh looked up at Docker. “The missing dog tags and rifle, the unidentified voice ordering retreat, all of this struck you as reasonable at the time?”

“Yes, sir, it did.”

“I see.” Karsh made a check mark on his legal pad. “And so, after that first conversation with Jackson Baird, you accepted him as a member of your section, assigned him duties and so forth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In fact, you provided him with a rifle, didn’t you, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wouldn’t you describe that as an act of faith in Jackson Baird’s bona fides?”

“Not exactly.”

The major looked mildly exasperated. “Then tell me, lieutenant, how would you describe this display of trust and confidence in a youngster who was a total stranger to you?”

“If I trusted anything, sir, I guess it was my own judgment.”

“Very well, let’s move on to another area. I’d like to discuss” — the major glanced at his notes — “the action in which Private Samuel Gelnick was killed. I’ll recap those events, lieutenant, and if I’m in error, please correct me. Private Gelnick was running toward the gun revetment with Private Solvis when the ME-262 attacked your position. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Private Solvis made it safely to the revetment and Private Gelnick did not. Correct?”

“Yes, sir. Gelnick hit the ground and froze. He was killed by shrapnel. Solvis took cover against the outer wall of the revetment.”

“Immediately after that attack did Private Solvis take cover inside the revetment?”

Since Karsh had received depositions from every member of the section, Docker realized he must already know the answers to these questions, but he said, “No, sir. Solvis did nothing to protect himself. He seemed dazed by concussion, and by what happened to Gelnick.”

“Lieutenant, would you characterize Solvis’ situation at that time as extremely dangerous?”

“Yes, sir, I would.”

“Exposed and vulnerable to an attacking enemy aircraft?”

Docker knew what the major wanted, and he had every intention of giving it to him, but he found the theatrical emphasis depressing because it cheapened his memories of that action on the hill, the sleeting winds, the sound of the guns, and waiting for the plane to come back, with nobody able to tell Solvis why it had happened to Gelnick... “Yes, he was very vulnerable, sir.”

“And then?”

“Baird went and got him, sir, grabbed him by the arm and hauled him inside the revetment.”

“Exposing himself to considerable danger in the process?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in the subsequent action — I’m referring to the shooting down of the aircraft — Baird also conducted himself in a soldierly fashion?”

“Yes, he certainly did, sir.”

Major Karsh made notes for a moment or so, and then, after carefully reading what he’d written, glanced at the other officers. “Gentlemen?”

Captain Walton said, “I’d like to clarify one point, lieutenant. When Baird went to Solvis’ aid, was he acting under your orders?”

“No, sir, he wasn’t.”

“Was he acting under anyone’s orders?”

“No, sir. He saw what had to be done and did it without regard to the danger and his own personal safety.”

Walton seemed pleased. He glanced at Karsh, eyes bright behind the old-fashioned glasses. “That does it as far as I’m concerned.”

Major Karsh nodded and checked the heavy silver watch strapped to his muscular wrist. “I want to make a point for the record before we recess for lunch. I consider it a privilege to include this information in the transcript... The plane shot down by Lieutenant Docker’s gun section on December twentieth was no ordinary aircraft. It was an ME-262, a jet-propulsion plane with defensive and offensive capabilities superior to any aircraft flown in this war. Army engineers recovered that prototype aircraft from the Mont Reynard mountain range. The identification of its potential gave the Allied Air Force valuable lead time to prepare a strategy against the more than two thousand ME-262S which flew missions during the closing stages of the Battle of the Bulge.” The major’s eyes had become intent, serious. “The men of Section Eight, all the men of that section, are to be commended for their courage and resourcefulness during that action.”

“Hear, hear!” Captain Walton said.

Karsh turned his smile toward the sergeant. “When you’ve typed up copies of this transcript, remind me that I want this particular section initialed by all three officers of the Board.”

The MP corporal pulled open the double doors of the ballroom and came to attention as Karsh, briefcase under his arm, strode toward him, his leather heels echoing on the parquet floors.

Walton collected his papers. The sergeant slipped her arms into her overcoat.

“Elspeth?”

She glanced at him. “Sir?”

“Sorry, just curious. About your name, I mean. Is it French, or what?”

“It’s British, captain. I was named after a great-aunt in London.”

“Cheerio and pip-pip, eh what? Elspeth, our mess is off limits to EMs, but as court secretary, I think we could shoe-horn you in.”

“Thank you, captain, but I’ve already made plans for lunch.”

“Well, suit yourself. Docker, if you’re tired of GI food, there’s a damn good brasserie, Le Chat qui Fum, near the flower market. That means ‘the cat who smokes.’ ”

“Hear, hear,” Docker said, and picked up his overcoat and left the ballroom.

“Surly bastard,” Lieutenant Weiffel said.

“He may have reason to be.” Walton looked at his watch. “Let’s chow up. Karsh said two o’clock.”

Docker had coffee and a sandwich at a riverside café, where old men in jackets over woolen sweaters stood at a zinc-topped bar drinking beer and brandy. When he returned to the ballroom of the Empire Hotel several minutes before two o’clock, Sergeant Corey was at her desk and the officers were seated at the conference table arranging their files and notes.

As Docker took his chair, Karsh said, “Lieutenant Weiffel? Do you have a question?”

“Yes, sir.”

Docker recognized the book opened in front of Weiffel as a U.S. Army Small-Arms Training Manual.

Weiffel said, “Lieutenant, in Private Farrel’s deposition, he states that he filed the sear off his M-1 rifle because you told him to. Is that right?”

“It wasn’t an order, sir. It was a suggestion.”

“Well, did you file the sear off your rifle? And if so, would you tell us why?”

“Yes. To convert it to full automatic.”

Weiffel leaned forward, a smooth roll of fat rising pinkly above his shirt collar, and put a finger on a paragraph of the Small-Arms Manual. With his other hand the lieutenant began stroking his soft scalp, a habit of his that struck Docker as curious because Weiffel always accompanied the gesture with an expression of surprise and alarm, as if he were freshly conscious of loss each time his hand strayed to his bald head. He said now, “I guess you know, lieutenant, that once you file that sear off, the rifle can’t be converted back to normal semiautomatic function?”

“I understand that, lieutenant.”

“By stretching of point, you could say that you destroyed government property without proper authority.”

“The purpose of making that modification was to get more firepower in the air.”

“And is that all that matters? The amount of ammo you can pump off?”

“Well, it sure as hell doesn’t do much good on the ground.”

“Lieutenant Docker,” Karsh said. “Some of these questions may strike you as irrelevant, but keep your answers pertinent and responsive. Is that clear?”

“Yes, major, but the lieutenant’s question made that kind of answer very difficult.”

Karsh nodded to Sergeant Corey. “Please read the last few exchanges.”

“Yes, sir.” She flipped back a page of her notebook and found the place with her pencil. “Lieutenant Weiffel’s question: ‘And is that all that matters? The amount of ammo you can pump off?’ Lieutenant Docker’s answer: ‘Well, it sure as hell doesn’t do much good on the ground.’ ”

“Thank you, sergeant... well, lieutenant, you may have a point, the query might be construed as ambiguous, but that wasn’t intentional—”

“Then I’ve got just one more question,” Weiffel said. “I’ll try to make it real clear. You say you didn’t order Private Farrel to file the sear off his rifle. But you suggested he do it. Have I got that straight now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant, did anyone order you to file the sear off your rifle?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, did someone suggest to you that you destroy government property?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who, lieutenant? And under what circumstances?”

“After Kasserine, a colonel on the division commander’s staff advised us all to file the sears off our rifles. He made it clear he didn’t want to be quoted on the subject but I’ll identify him if you think it will shed light on these hearings.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Weiffel said, and looked uncertainly at the major.

Karsh said, “If the colonel preferred to remain anonymous, so be it. Captain Walton?”

The captain opened a folder and leafed through it. “I’d like to inquire into a certain issue raised by Lieutenant Bart Whitter.” He nodded to Sergeant Corey. “There’s an h in that name, sergeant, W-h-i-t-t-e-r.” Adjusting his glasses, Walton ran his finger across the open file. “Lieutenant Whitter states that the then-Sergeant Docker and other members of his gun section unlawfully appropriated fifty-five gallons of ethyl alcohol from Utah Beach in Normandy—” He stared at Docker. “That was just after the Allied landing in France last year. What’s your comment on this portion of Lieutenant Whitter’s deposition?”

“It’s not true, sir.”

“You mean the lieutenant is mistaken? Or that he’s lying?”

“Probably a little of both, sir.”

The major stared at him over the frames of his heavy glasses. “Try to be more specific, lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir. In the first place. Lieutenant Whitter wasn’t on Beach Red that day. He was on a reconnaissance inland with Captain Grant, and a check of our battery records will show that. Secondly, we didn’t appropriate anything, for the simple reason that it was impossible to steal anything from Utah Beach. There was only one rule the beachmasters enforced: empty trucks hit the beach, full trucks leave the beach. We didn’t have a full truck so we added those jerry cans of alcohol to our load of tents and camouflage nets. The beachmasters were screaming at us through bullhorns to clear out by then, which we were glad to do because the beach was under fire from German fighters and artillery. A stray shot would have turned us into a bonfire. I submit with respect, sir, that Lieutenant Whitter didn’t know what the hell happened on that day. So someone must have told him what happened. If he believes it’s true, he’s mistaken. If not, he’s lying.”

There was a reluctant admiration in Karsh’s smile. “You make a good case, lieutenant. But isn’t it true that your section never made any attempt to deliver that alcohol to a medical unit, or turn it over to your own supply sergeant?”

“Yes, sir, that’s true.”

“And isn’t it true that Corporal Trankic employed his professional skills to convert that alcohol into a whiskey which your section used exclusively for its own consumption?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then isn’t it understandable how you and Lieutenant Whitter could draw opposite conclusions from basically the same set of facts?”

Docker hesitated because he didn’t know what Karsh was getting at, but he knew that the black whiskey wasn’t the issue here; Karsh had to be laying the groundwork for something else. With no notion of what that could be, Docker shrugged and said, “Yes, I can see how that could happen, sir.”

“Ultimately, of course, it might just be a matter of opinion. Would you agree with that, lieutenant?”

“I suppose I’d have to, sir.”

“I’m not trying to direct or influence your answers, lieutenant. The very purpose of this board is to examine such differences of opinion, gray areas, so to speak, and to try to establish a consensus of truth.”

Karsh removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “In regard to this black whiskey, lieutenant, you could be excused for thinking we’re pounding a very small point into the ground. But there’s a reason for it, as you’ll see.” Replacing his glasses, Karsh adjusted the frames and said, “Let’s go back to December fifteenth, the night before the Germans launched their offensive. You were at D Battery’s headquarters that night, lieutenant. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you tell us why?”

“Three men in my gun section had been killed in a booby-trapped home in the town of Werpen, sir. I was at the battery CP to check their personal effects with a clerk from Graves Registration.”

“Not very easy duty, I’m sure,” Karsh said. “Now, after that business was taken care of, you went on to the battery’s motor pool. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you tell us what took place at the motor pool that night?”

Docker sensed a change in the attitude of Karsh and the other officers. They regarded him with a new intensity, a sharpened and more aggressive interest. Until this point. Docker had been unable to make out any pattern in their questions. The dusty olive grove still looked deceptively pleasant and inviting, but he was battle-smart enough to know that the questions about the black whiskey and filing the sears off their rifles had been a smoke screen for what was coming.

“We’re waiting, lieutenant.” Karsh’s voice was quietly insistent.

“One of my men, Corporal Larkin, was there, sir. He’d been drinking and I thought he might be in trouble.”

“Was Larkin’s behavior normally a source of concern to you?”

“Not usually, sir. But when he was drinking, yes.”

“Would you say Larkin had a drinking problem?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Would you describe him as a heavy drinker?”

“I think I’d have to, sir.”

“Did you ever report Larkin’s drinking to your officers?”

“No, sir.”

“I see.” Karsh made a note on his pad. “Tell me this, lieutenant: how would you describe your relationship with Corporal Larkin?”

Docker had told himself to keep a grip on his temper, but he realized now that would be difficult because these officers with their legal phrases and uniforms that smelled of soap and starch were inquiring into the lives of sweating, shat-upon men who couldn’t defend themselves at hearings like these because they were lying dead in the mud and snow they had been told were fields of honor, so to speak, to borrow the major’s bullshit phrase... He found it hard to channel his thoughts; it was the same feeling of disarray he’d experienced when they’d questioned him about Baird, because his sharpest memories of that youngster were of his outsized overcoat, the muddy boots with frozen laces, and the thin wrists burned raw with wind and sleet. And so what was the truth of Larkin, what did he remember about him... the cough you could hear night and day around the guns, the dark smudge of whiskers, the irreverent anger, the way he laughed when he checked and raised? Or was it in his bullying uncles, or the sick worry he felt about his job and his wife Agnes and the daughter he hadn’t seen in two years? How could he sum up what else there had been (“Describe your relationship, lieutenant...”) under the impersonal scrutiny of officers in a ballroom designed for string quartets and punch bowls full of wine and strawberries?

“Would you like Sergeant Corey to repeat the question, lieutenant?”

Docker let out his breath slowly. “I don’t need my memory refreshed about Larkin, sir. He was a good soldier and a good friend.”

“That’s a generous answer, lieutenant.” Opening a folder, Karsh said, “I will quote now from Corporal Haskell’s statement. ‘When Docker shot the lights out of that truck, I was scared as hell. There was no way to guess what he’d do next. With that gun and mad as he was, it was like he was out of his frigging head.’ ”

Karsh marked his place with the tip of a pencil. “Is that an accurate description of how you behaved that night, lieutenant?”

“No, sir, it’s not.”

“Then I’d be pleased to hear your version.”

“Larkin was drunk,” Docker said. “Haskell had fifty pounds on him and was working him over. I told him to stop. I also told Haskell’s mechanics to turn off the headlights of their trucks because they were violating blackout security.”

“And when they didn’t, you shot out those lights?”

“Yes sir.”

“Wouldn’t you say that was a rather drastic overreaction?”

“I wouldn’t argue the point, sir,” Docker said, “but it got the job done.”

Karsh looked at him, his fingers drumming on the table. Captain Walton leaned forward to say something, but Karsh checked him. “We won’t digress now, captain.” He studied the open folder. “I’ll quote again from Haskell’s statement, lieutenant. ‘After he shot out the lights. Docker asked me how far I wanted to push this thing, how far I wanted to take it. I’d busted up Larkin, sure, because he’d called me things no white man would take. I got nothing to apologize for, but I’ll admit the way Docker looked scared me. Maybe he wouldn’t of used that gun, but plain, frigging common sense told me to back off. I ain’t sorry I did just that.’ ”

Karsh looked inquiringly at Docker. “Would you care to comment on Corporal Haskell’s testimony?”

“For the record, sir, I didn’t threaten him with a gun. I bolstered the forty-five before I asked him how far he wanted to take things.”

“And that’s your only comment?”

“Except, sir, that for a man with nothing to apologize for, I’d say Haskell’s done a pretty damn good job of doing it.”

The rictus flared on Karsh’s face but no other emotion showed in his expression as he closed Haskell’s folder. “We’ll recess for ten minutes, gentlemen.”

At Karsh’s words, the MP corporal came to attention and opened the doors of the ballroom. Sergeant Corey glanced at her watch and recorded the time in her notebook.

“Lieutenant Docker, this information is from the statement Captain Travolta took from a Paul Bonnard.” Captain Walton scanned an open file and absently stroked his wilted mustache. “According to Paul Bonnard, Corporal Larkin told you about the cellar full of liquor and foodstuffs at the castle near your gun position. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Larkin mentioned it to me, sir.”

Walton settled back in his chair, the bright overhead lights coating his glasses, and Docker saw in his expression then, in the expectant complacency of his smile, the outline of the land mines hidden in those still-quiet olive groves.

“Why, lieutenant? Or more to the point, what did Corporal Larkin have in mind?”

Docker remembered the bitterly cold morning they had talked about it, the two of them close to the fire in the cave on Mont Reynard, the wind pounding the tarpaulin over the entrance and Larkin coughing painfully, his face smudged with dirt and creased with bitterness, jabbing a finger at him for emphasis and talking of his job at Railway Express and Hamlin’s modest proposal to build decompression chambers for returning GIs...

Walton was saying, “Did you understand my question, lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. Larkin wanted to sell those supplies on the black market. He wanted to use one of our trucks to haul them to Liège.”

“Let’s get this straight... Corporal Larkin asked you for permission to use one of Section Eight’s trucks. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him to forget it, sir.”

“Would you be more specific? You told him to forget about asking your permission? Or to forget about selling those supplies on the black market? Or what?”

“I told him to forget the whole business, sir.”

“But since he obviously didn’t, I’d like to know something else. What did Corporal Larkin offer you in return for the use of that truck?”

Docker saw that Walton’s pencil was poised over his notebook, and that Weiffel and Major Karsh were watching him intently. Even Sergeant Corey was looking at him now, frowning slightly.

“What did he offer you, lieutenant?” Walton repeated.

“Larkin offered me half of his share.”

“How much would that have amounted to?”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t think he did either.”

“You’ll excuse me, but I find that difficult to believe,” Walton said. “Are you telling us that Larkin was prepared to go AWOL from his gun section, prepared to commit a felony without any notion of what kind of money was involved?”

“His guess was the goods would bring something around eight or nine thousand dollars.”

“You recall that now. Good. Did you inspect those German supplies, by the way?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you can’t tell us whether the corporal’s figure was realistic or not.” Walton studied his notes. “According to Paul Bonnard again, there was a black market operator involved in this deal, a Belgian named Gervais. Did you know him?”

“No, sir.”

“So what we have is a three-way split between Larkin, Bonnard and Gervais.” Walton looked up at Docker. “And the deal was that you’d get half of Corporal Larkin’s share, right?”

“I’ve already told you—”

“You told us lots of things, lieutenant. Right now just answer my question. You were supposed to split with Corporal Larkin. Right?”

“I’ve testified he suggested that to me and that I told him to forget it.”

Walton continued as if he hadn’t heard this. “Let’s see what we’re talking about in terms of dollars and cents. We’ll accept Larkin’s estimate for that purpose, make it an even nine thousand.” The captain scratched figures on his legal pad, drew a line under them and jotted down the results of his calculations. A small smile appeared under his mustache. “A three-way split of nine thousand would give Larkin three thousand and you fifteen hundred. You want to check my arithmetic, lieutenant?”

“There’s no need, captain. Lm sure you’re qualified to divide three into nine.”

Major Karsh said sharply, “In your interests. Lieutenant Docker, I will ask the recording secretary to strike that last remark.”

Sergeant Corey nodded and drew a line across her notebook and initialed the margins.

Walton bent forward and wrote rapidly on his legal pad, his expression sullen. He didn’t look up when he said, “You took no action against Corporal Larkin, lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“Even though you knew he had entered into a criminal conspiracy with Paul Bonnard and a black market dealer? Even after he had offered you a bribe to take part in that conspiracy?”

“What the hell do you think I should have done, captain?”

Captain Walton’s face flushed red and he threw his pencil on the table. “I’m not going to take any more of your insubordination. Docker.” His voice was rising. “Under the Articles of War, you had not only the authority but the responsibility to put him under arrest.”

“We were in a combat situation, we’d already suffered casualties. I needed every man I had on the guns. I couldn’t spare Larkin and another soldier standing guard over him.”

Major Karsh said quietly, “I’d like to interrupt for a moment. Lieutenant, when your section reestablished contact with your battery, did you tell Captain Grant about Corporal Larkin’s deal with Bonnard and Gervais?”

“Yes, sir.”

Karsh removed his glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief, obviously taking his time about it, and allowing the commonplace sights and sounds in the old ballroom, the shadows on the brocade walls, the stir of pencils and papers to ease the palpable tension between Docker and Walton.

Then he said, “Tell me, lieutenant, was Corporal Larkin usually involved in the black market?”

“No, sir. But like practically everyone, he traded cigarettes and chocolate for wine or brandy, things like that.”

“Yet now he was getting in much deeper.” Karsh held up his glasses to catch the light from one of the tall windows. “How do you account for that?”

“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?”

“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.