Soldiers of ’44

Chapter Thirty-Two

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.

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:

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.”

“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?”

“If all that makes you feel better, fine,” Karsh said. “Frankly, I don’t know what the final tab might have come to. Just be grateful you didn’t have to pay it.”

“It may come to that yet.”

Karsh looked at him sharply. “I’ve told you as flat-out as I can that this business is over, Docker. As a lawyer and as a man who knows how this system works, I’d advise you to accept that.”

The door opened and Colonel Rankin walked into the room. “Now just what the hell’s going on in here? That correspondent from London, his ears are coming up to a point.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Karsh hesitated, then let out his breath slowly. “The lieutenant has reservations about the Baird transcript.”

The colonel closed the door and looked with a puzzled smile at Karsh and Docker. “I just plain don’t understand this,” he said. “But I’d like you gentlemen to satisfy my curiosity on the double. Your board of inquiry, major, has fulfilled its function. As of about fourteen hundred hours today, it closed down shop. The areas you investigated are no longer subject to discussion. So what’s all this piss, shit and corruption about reservations, lieutenant?”

“Colonel, I received a letter only an hour or so ago written by Baird the night before he was killed. I think you should read it, sir.”

Rankin put his half-empty glass on a chest of drawers. “All right, where the hell is it?”

He accepted the pages from Karsh and read through them quickly, a frown darkening his blunt, flushed features. Then he read them again, but more slowly this time, and when he’d finished he looked directly at Docker and crumpled both pages in his big hands and tossed them in the direction of a frayed leather wastebasket.

“That won’t do it, sir,” Docker said.

“I’ll tell you something, soldier,” Colonel Rankin said. “Don’t ever use that tone to me again or you’ll fucking well regret it. Now I’ll tell you what / think. There’s no date on that letter so we don’t know when it was written. Lots of it’s smeared and smudged, so we don’t know for sure who wrote it. So that’s the end of this business, gentlemen. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

“Sir, don’t you think General Baird should make that decision?” Docker said.

Rankin stared at him. “Jesus, boy, you are a dummy. I respect your combat record, lieutenant, and because of that and only because of that, I’ll overlook that last remark. But you’ll return to your unit immediately. And that’s an order.”

Docker looked around the room, feeling for an instant a strange loss of orientation, even identity. It wasn’t an alarming sensation, it was a rather comfortable one, in fact, because it seemed to place him at a safe remove from Rankin’s authority... He saw that Baird’s balled-up letter had struck the side of the wastebasket and lay on the rug beside it. He went over and picked it up, smoothed out the pages. The look of Baird’s handwriting reminded him acutely of the night of the attack and the overwhelming noise the German tank had made coming up the hill to their position...

Colonel Rankin and Karsh watched him expectantly. The moment had a certain finality about it. Docker knew.

“I’ve got just one question, colonel,” he said, and heard with some surprise the deceptive mildness in his voice. “How far do you want to take this, sir?”

“Docker, you’re buying yourself a whole shithouse full of trouble.”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t answer my question, sir.”

“I don’t intend to answer your question.” Colonel Rankin’s face was as red as a fresh burn. “What I will do, soldier, is nail your ass to the floor for insubordination.”

Karsh cleared his throat. “Sir, I think we might consider the fact that Lieutenant Docker has been under a severe emotional strain—”

“Goddamn it, Karsh, keep your mouth shut until I ask you to open it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir, that’s very clear.”

“Good. I’m pleased to find there’s some courtesy and discipline left in this man’s army, although I’m not optimistic about finding any efficiency and competence to go along with it.” Rankin turned to the chest of drawers, picked up his drink and took a long pull, then stared at Docker and Karsh, once again, apparently in control of his temper and emotions.

“I’ll tell you something. Docker. You’re not Army. And neither is Sid Karsh here. You’re just a pair of goddamn civilians we lent some uniforms to. When the war’s over, you pack ’em away in mothballs, air ’em out for Armistice Day or a Legion convention. That’s all the army means to you. But it’s not your life.” There was a raw, honest anger in the colonel’s words, though the only physical manifestation of his feelings was the white of his knuckles against the weathered tan of his clenched fists... “We shot a man in Paris two weeks ago for desertion,” he went on. “A private soldier name of Slovik. But mark this, and mark it well, he’s the first soldier court-martialed and executed for that offense since the goddamn Civil War. But in the Baird matter I find officers bandying that charge around as if it’s no more significant than a recruit throwing a cigarette butt on a parade ground.”

The colonel finished his drink and put the glass down so hard that a piece of ice bounced out and rolled across the top of the chest of drawers. “Well, I’ve got some news for you gentlemen. When this war is over and done with, when you’re back getting tanked-up on Saturday nights at your country clubs and telling everybody how you won the damn thing, when the time comes, there will still be an Army of the United States standing ready to defend America in any part of the world it’s called on to, and that army doesn’t need help from any Lieutenant Dockers or Sid Karshes... And I’ll tell you one last thing. This army isn’t going to let either one of you soil its reputation or the good name of the officers who care about its principles in war and in peace, not just your damn summer soldiers but winter soldiers too...” He jabbed a finger at Karsh. “You told me you could wrap up the inquiry your way, and I let you try, although I had a feeling in my goddamn gut we should prepare a transcript of what we wanted and call the witnesses to attention and order them to sign the goddamn thing.”

“I’d like to point out, sir,” Karsh said, “that when we discussed procedure none of us knew about this letter from Jackson Baird.”

Rankin looked steadily at Karsh. “What letter are you talking about, major?”

There were always two separate wars going on. Docker thought. He preferred the one with guns... “This is the letter Major Karsh referred to, sir.” Docker folded the two pages of Baird’s letter and put them in the breast pocket of his tunic. “I think General Adamson might want to see it. If not, I’ll try General Middleton and General Bradley. And if that doesn’t do the job, I might interest that newsman outside drinking your whiskey.”

“Major Karsh, you’re a witness to every goddamn word of this,” Rankin said. “Now you want to know how far I’ll take it. Docker? Just as far as it takes to lock your wise ass away in a military stockade for about twenty years.”

Docker opened the door that divided the suite and saw that the group in the living room was staring at him and Colonel Rankin. He said quietly, “With respect, sir, I believe my orders from Major Karsh take precedence here. He told me that my job and the responsibility of First Army’s board was to get the truth. I’ve been following those orders to the best of my ability. I intend to continue following them, sir. I also don’t give one damn about these gold bars or a court-martial, colonel, if that’s where you want to take it.”

Docker came to attention then, snapped a salute at Karsh and Colonel Rankin and walked out of the room.

“Goddamn it, soldier, you leave this hotel, you’re under arrest,” Rankin shouted after him.

Docker crossed the slippery brick driveway outside the Hotel Empire and turned into the street where his jeep was parked behind a row of American command cars.

He felt nothing at all, and was grateful for that; for the relief from the insistent pain he’d felt when he’d looked at Baird’s cramped handwriting. Someone called his name, the voice light on the churning winds, and he turned and saw Elspeth Corey running toward him on the snow-packed sidewalk. She wasn’t wearing an overcoat and when she stopped she hugged her elbows tightly against the gale pounding through the narrow street.

“The major told me to ask you to wait for him,” she said.

“You’d better get back inside.”

“Will you wait for him?”

“Did he say why?”

She shook her head. “The colonel is phoning for the MPs. Major Karsh asked me to try to catch up with you and tell you to wait for him.”

“I don’t see any point in that.”

A few strands of hair heavy with snow fell across her forehead. She pushed them away. “Do you always have to be so stubborn?”

Docker glanced past her and saw Karsh turning into the street from the driveway of the hotel. He was struggling to thrust his arms into his overcoat, but the wind had caught the tails and sleeves of the garment and the erratic flappings sent dim shadows leaping ahead of him on the sidewalk.

When he joined them, Docker saw the tension in his eyes. “I’ll take you to General Adamson,” he said. “I can get you in to see him, but you’d better be damned sure what you want to say.”

Docker got behind the wheel of his jeep. “Get in, major.”

He stepped on the starter and said to the girl, “Thanks, sergeant. Now for Christ’s sake get back to the hotel.”

However, when he accelerated past the curved driveway, he checked the rear vision mirror and saw that she was still standing there looking after them, arms tightly hugging her body.