The Ville Rat

– 11-

After the near miss with the garlic truck, Ernie visited Staff Sergeant Palinki, the military police armorer, and demanded more ammo for his .45.

“How about you, buddy?” Palinki asked me. “You need a weapon too?”

I declined. I figured one gun was enough for what we needed to do.

Palinki was a huge man-Samoan, from Hawaii. He’d told me he hadn’t originally wanted to join the army, but he’d been drafted. He admitted freely that his entire extended family accompanied him to the induction center and they’d all cried like babies when he’d been taken away. His family thought they’d never see him again, and they almost hadn’t. He’d been trained in infantry tactics and sent to Vietnam, but emerged with only minor shrapnel wounds. When he returned to Hawaii, much of his extended family had moved on. The young ones were going off to college; others were landing tourist hotel or government jobs and moving into tract homes around the island.

“I had money in my pocket and stripes on my arm,” Palinki said. “I was somebody, but if I get out of the army, I go back to being nobody again.”

So he re-upped for six. Now, after more than eight years in the army, he was heavily invested. “Twelve more years,” he said smiling, “and I’m walking. Back to the big island with a monthly retirement check and full medical.” Then he smiled even more broadly, showing a gold-capped tooth. “And full dental.”

Palinki was a lifer, like me. We were loyal to the army, for the most part, and patriotic, true-blue Americans, but the first rule when you’re a lifer is to watch out for your brisket. If you piss off the wrong people, the army will screw you over and not even look back. Sometimes, like in Vietnam, they can even get you killed. Usually, though, they don’t, at least not on the streets of Chico Village.

This time, though, they almost had.

Before I could shove the soccer balls out of the way and sit back up, I heard Ernie cursing and firing his weapon-one shot, two-into the Songtan night.

Then he ran after the cab. Down the road, tires screeched, an engine roared, and hoarse GIs shouted and cursed. Ernie fired again. By now I was out of the bin and standing unsteadily, surrounded by broken metal tubing and splintered wood. I took a step forward, and something heavy banged against my foot. I reached down and spotted a cylindrical object. I lifted it and turned it toward the light. Colt 45. A full can, warm to the touch, unopened. I heard the gunfire again, and then it stopped. I dropped the can, grabbed my throbbing head, and staggered toward the sound.

Like the sudden emersion of trapdoor spiders, Korean business girls in hot pants and miniskirts poured out of the bars and nightclubs lining the main drag. Everyone’s attention was turned toward flashing blue and green and yellow lights rotating down the road. A KNP roadblock. I surged forward with the crowd and spotted Ernie, standing next to three KNPs and what looked like the same taxicab that had tried to kill me. It was parked at an angle in front of two blue KNP sedans, and two Korean men were on their knees next to the cab with their hands shackled behind their backs. One of the KNPs had his fist on the back of the head of one of the kneeling men; he was leaning over, talking at him, and the suspect kept his head bowed, nodding occasionally.

Ernie stood next to a man I recognized: Mr. Kill. He saw me and his gaze filled with concern.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Somebody threw something at the cab. It hit the windshield and gave me enough time to get out of the way.” I paused. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “We visited your friend, Haggler Lee, after you talked to him. He agreed that you might need some backup.”

I glanced at the two kneeling Korean men. “Who are they?”

“Not sure, but we’ll find out soon enough.”

Ernie said, “They’re lucky I didn’t pop them with one of the rounds I fired.”

Mr. Kill smiled. “That certainly put them into a panic.”

I told them about the can of Colt 45 that someone had thrown.

“The Ville Rat,” Ernie said. “Gotta be. He must be in the area.”

Quickly, I explained to Mr. Kill who the Ville Rat was and told him what he looked like.

“I’ll send a patrol in,” Mr. Kill said.

“No.” I held out my hand. “It’s better if Ernie and I approach him.”

Mr. Kill studied me. Then he said, “If you think it’s best.”

“Yes, we want his cooperation,” I said, “if we can get it.”

Ernie and I hurried back to the black section of Songtan.

The Blue Diamond Bar was packed. The music was so loud it blared out into the roadway as GIs jostled one another wall to wall. Inside, I could make out a half-dozen bar maids, sweating and serving drinks as fast as their hands could move. Most of the GIs were marines. I could tell by the T-shirts and headgear they wore, marked by unit insignia, and by the Japanese words-such as musame and taaksan and skoshi-they bantered about. Also, most of the men were in much better physical condition than your average Osan airman. Not that the zoomies didn’t work hard, but most of their jobs were highly technical and often sedentary.

Ernie and I pushed our way through the crowd. The greeting we received wasn’t particularly unfriendly, but it wasn’t friendly either. Most of the black marines eyed us suspiciously. Like one black GI had told me long ago, when you’re off duty and you finally have a chance to relax with other black GIs, you don’t particularly want to deal with any white motherfuckers, not if you don’t have to. We searched along the far wall with the small tables and finally Ernie elbowed me.

“There he is.”

Like a red flame in a dark night, the Ville Rat’s afro flashed red, orange, and yellow, depending on how the rotating strobe lights happened to hit his hairdo. He sat with three other GIs, all of them black, and they were smoking and laughing and chugging down sixteen-ounce cans of Colt 45. As we approached, he looked up at us.

At first there was fear in his green eyes. But then his black friends turned, noticing where his gaze fell, and uniformly they frowned. This seemed to give the Ville Rat courage. I pulled out my badge, showed it to the GIs at the table, and said, “We need to talk to you, outside.” Two of the black GIs stood, ready to object. “Not you,” I said, “only him.”

They glanced at the Ville Rat. He motioned for them to sit down.

“We’ll talk,” he said, “but we’ll talk here.” His voice was high and reedy, but it had a cadence to it, like a laid-back musician who spent a lot of time playing saxophone riffs.

“Outside,” Ernie said.

“Here,” the Ville Rat repeated.

By now, more GIs in the crowd had noticed our presence and a small group of curious parties coalesced around us. Ernie glanced back and forth, grinned, and said, “On second thought, this is as good a place as any.”

I grabbed an empty stool and sat opposite the Ville Rat. Ernie stood behind me, still grinning. He pulled out a pack of ginseng gum and offered some around. No takers.

“You threw a can at the cab,” I said.

The Ville Rat lifted his cigarette from the ashtray and puffed. The smoke only crawled part of the way down his throat before he blew it out.

“Didn’t want to see anybody killed,” he said.

“So who’s trying to kill me?”

“The same guys who are going to kill me.”

“As in who?”

“Dangerous people,” he replied. “People with connections.”

“And they want to kill you because you can finger them.”

“Some of them.”

“What’s your name?”

“Rat. That’s what the GIs call me.”

“Affectionately, I hope.”

“I’m a popular guy.”

“You tried to tell us something up in Sonyu-ri. You said it wasn’t right, what they did to that girl.”

“It wasn’t right.”

“You knew her?”

“I’d seen her.”

“So who killed her?”

The Ville Rat puffed on his cigarette again. “The same guy who’s supplying me.”

“Through the Class Six?”

He nodded.

“But off the books.”

He nodded again.

“You used to work for them,” I said, “when you were in the army.”

“It was different then,” he said, setting down his cigarette and leaning toward me. “Nobody was getting hurt. Just some extra supplies ordered into the country. It had been going on for years before I got here. Harmless, they told me. A fund was set up to ease the way of the US Forces in Korea, to make the politicians happy; provide money for projects on compound that couldn’t be done through normal appropriations. Things like tennis courts at the officers’ club. A new air conditioner for the Defense Youth Activities Center. Things like that.”

“They even helped orphans,” I said.

“They did. They really did. Jackets during the winter, toys at Christmas; at one of them, they even paid to have a new well dug.”

“Who was in charge?”

“People high up. Way up.”

“Generals?”

The Ville Rat frowned. “Not them, they come and go. Civilians. They’re the ones who stay here. They’re the ones with the contacts in the ROK government.”

“Department of the Army Civilians,” I said. “DACs?”

He nodded.

“Civilians like Rick Mills?”

“I don’t know. I never saw him involved directly.”

“But he runs the Central Locker Fund,” I said. “He had to know.”

The Ville Rat didn’t contradict me. I continued.

“But now the operation is threatened, so they’re willing to kill me and they’re willing to kill you. Your supply chain has been cut.”

He spread his thin fingers.

“So give me their names. We’ll bust this thing wide open.”

“It won’t do any good. They’re too high up. If they have to, they’ll sic the Korean government on you.”

I thought of Mr. Kill. Did he have the power to protect us? Probably not.

“So if you didn’t want to help, why did you contact us up north? Why did you throw that can of malt liquor at the taxicab?”

“I want to stop him.”

“Stop who?”

“Stop the guy who’s caused all this trouble. The guy who screwed everything up. The guy who murdered Miss Hwang.”

“We can do that,” I told him. “All I need is a name.”

He acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “The worst part is, he has a new girl.”

“A new girl like Miss Hwang?”

“Yes. His own servant. His own kisaeng.”

“She’s in danger too, then.”

“I’ll say.”

I grabbed his hand. “You need to give me a name.”

“They’ll kill me.”

“You have to tell me. There are lives at stake. Yours, mine, this young woman who’s being forced into being someone’s private kisaeng. If you won’t talk here,” I said, “then you’re leaving me no choice. I’ll take you in.”

Roughly, I jerked him toward me and reached for the handcuffs clipped to the back of my belt. Without warning, the Ville Rat jerked back violently. I kept my grip, but maybe because of the pounding I’d taken lately, I suddenly became dizzy. Ernie grabbed me and reached across the table for the Ville Rat. But by then the other GIs were on their feet, shoving Ernie and forcing me backward. I pushed back.

That did it.

Somebody threw a punch and then somebody else shoved and a table fell over and bottles crashed to the ground, and then Ernie was against the wall, reaching for his .45. He pulled it out and shot one round into the ceiling. The Ville Rat reeled backward into the crowd. I lunged for him, but missed and then was held back by a half-dozen hands.

A whistle shrilled at the front door. Barmaids screamed and helmeted Korean National Police pushed their way into the bar, formed into a phalanx, using heavy black batons to shove the enraged marines out of the way.

Punches rained down on me. I crouched and grabbed a knocked-over cocktail table and used it as a shield. The crowd rushed toward the back door and soon the KNPs held the central ground in the club. Ernie was still waving his .45 in the air, but the GIs were gone now, making their way out of the Blue Diamond as fast as they could move.

And the Ville Rat was gone with them.

I motioned for Ernie to put away his pistol. Wide-eyed, he stared around the empty barroom. When he realized we were safe, he switched the safety on and tucked the .45 back into his shoulder holster.

“Where’s the Ville Rat?” he asked.

I pointed toward the back door. We followed the retreating crowd and with a patrol of KNPs spent the next hour searching for him. No luck. The Ville Rat had lived up to his name. Like a clever rodent, he’d disappeared.

Early the next morning, I left a note on Staff Sergeant Riley’s desk for him to check with his contacts at 8th Army Personnel and find out the names and ranks of all GIs assigned to the Central Locker Fund in the last few years. I left him a physical description of the Ville Rat. Then Ernie and I, both in green dress uniforms, marched over to the JAG office.

Lieutenant Margaret Mendelson seemed relieved to see us. “There you are. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. Have you got anything new on the Threets court-martial? Anything more about Sergeant Orgwell?”

“Not a thing,” Ernie said smiling.

“Good. You screwed things up enough as it is.”

My mind flew back to Private Threets’s accusations of sexual assault by Sergeant Orgwell, which could well have been his motive for the shooting on the firing range. Not a good motive and certainly not a justification, but at least a mitigating factor that might become important when it came time for sentencing. None of which the army wanted to hear. The 8th Army honchos’ attitude was clear. A low-ranking enlisted man shot a senior NCO in broad daylight in front of his entire unit. The answer was simple. Throw him in the federal pen and toss away the key. Don’t muddy the waters with accusations of homosexuality and sexual assault. That just embarrasses everybody.

“Get over to the courthouse,” Lieutenant Mendelson told us. “Bob Conroy is waiting for you.” Threets’s less-than-veteran defense counsel. Before we left, she added, “And don’t talk to anybody.”

Which was good advice, and advice that we would’ve followed if we hadn’t been stopped ten yards in front of the courthouse entrance by none other than Major General Frederick R. Kokol, the commander of the 2nd Infantry Division, the man known to journalists everywhere as the Gunslinger.

He stood with his hands on narrow hips, hawk nose pointed at us, pearl-handled revolvers grip-forward, hanging from either side of his web belt. He wore fatigues-not the dress green uniform that everyone else wore to court-martial-but he was the Gunslinger and he didn’t have to follow the usual rules of military decorum. The fatigues were starched and cut in front with a razor-like crease. His white-laced jump boots gleamed with ebony polish.

“You,” he said, pointing at us like Uncle Sam in a recruiting poster. “You’re the two who started this shit.”

Ernie and I both saluted. He didn’t return the salute, so we dropped our hands. A worried-looking captain stood behind him, apparently his aide. Behind him stood a senior NCO, probably his bodyguard and driver, less worried, smirking and enjoying the show.

“So what have you got to say for yourselves?” the Gunslinger asked.

“We didn’t start anything, sir,” Ernie told him, keeping his voice calm and, for once, reasonable. “The shooting at the firing range is what started it.”

“But you made it worse. Now the men in the unit are upset because, according to you, a poor black man is being attacked by a white man. My soldiers who used to see nothing but the color green are now seeing themselves as black and white. You,” he said, pointing again, “you’re dividing my division!”

I’d heard enough. “It was divided before we got there,” I said.

The Gunslinger turned his withering gaze toward me. “No, it wasn’t! We were one! One body, one team, one infantry division ready to kick some North Korean ass. Now, because of you, people are laughing at the Second Division. Saying we’re full of homos. Saying we don’t treat our black soldiers right.”

“Maybe you don’t, sir.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“Have you been out in Sonyu-ri lately?” I asked. “Have you visited the Black Star Nightclub? Seen how the black soldiers don’t want to socialize with the white soldiers? Seen how they feel they have to stick together to protect one another? Have you seen any of that, sir?”

He stepped toward me, face burning red. “Who in the hell do you think you are? What’s your name? Sween-o? What the fuck kind of a name is that?”

“Sueno,” Ernie said, pronouncing it correctly, the n like the ny in canyon.

The general swiveled on him. “You? You’re standing up for him? You’re in on it too, trying to make the division look bad. Trying to drag our name through the mud.”

“We gathered testimony,” Ernie said, “the testimony of your soldiers.”

The Gunslinger’s aide stepped forward and whispered something in the general’s ear. He nodded, seeming to come out of a reverie. He turned back to us and once again shook a bony finger.

“The court-martial’s starting. You’d better not tell any lies up there on the stand.”

With that, he swiveled and hurried into the courtroom. The aide didn’t look at us, but the senior NCO turned back and grinned.

“Hope you enjoyed the show,” Ernie said.

“Oh, I did.”

He grinned even more broadly.

Inside the courtroom, Second Lieutenant Robert Conroy fidgeted on a straight-backed wooden chair, looking like a third grader waiting for class to start. Ernie and I sat directly behind him in the gallery and he turned around, relieved to see us. “Did you find anything else?”

“No, sir,” Ernie replied, “can’t say that we have. Did you subpoena Threets’s buddies?”

“They wouldn’t let me.”

“Who?”

“Eighth Army JAG.”

“You could’ve done it if you wanted to.”

“They told me it would just make things worse for Threets.”

“Bull,” Ernie said.

Two MPs escorted in the accused, Private First Class Clifton Threets. He wore a wrinkled khaki uniform; nobody’d bothered to fetch his Class A uniform from Division. Hands shackled in front, Threets glanced at us sullenly and then, guided by the MPs, plopped down in a chair next to Lieutenant Conroy. The MPs retreated, one taking his place by the front entrance and the other near the rear. The accused and counsel conferred for a while, and then Conroy rose and stepped toward us. “Threets says his buddies will be here.”

“They can’t,” I said. “Not on a duty day and not unless they’re on approved pass.”

“I know that,” Conroy said, “but he insists they’ll be here.”

Ernie grinned and pulled out a stick of ginseng gum. “This I gotta see.”

To our left, the Gunslinger, his aide, and the accompanying senior NCO sat grimly behind Lieutenant Mendelson at the prosecution desk. A clerk I recognized from the JAG office entered through the back door behind the dais and shouted, “Attention in the Court!” Everyone stood, including General Kokol.

Three officers walked in: one JAG colonel and two lieutenant colonels. One of the lieutenant colonels wore signal brass, the other infantry. The three men marched behind polished oak, turned, and abruptly took their seats. Everyone else sat too. Then the presiding officer banged his gavel.

“Is the prosecution ready to proceed?”

“Ready, Your Honor,” Lieutenant Mendelson replied.

She stepped forward to present her case. It was precise and devastating. There was little doubt that during the biannual range qualification for Charley Battery, 2nd of the 17th Field Artillery Battalion, Private First Class Clifton Threets had, in fact, turned his weapon on Sergeant First Class Vincent P. Orgwell and shot him through the thigh. A ballistics technician testified as to the caliber of the rifle assigned to Threets, photographs of Orgwell’s wounds were shown, and Orgwell himself pointed out Threets as the man who had shot him. Most devastating were the written affidavits of a half-dozen fellow soldiers of Charley Battery who claimed they had seen Threets turn his weapon, aim at Orgwell, and fire.

Two hours later, when the prosecution rested, the court called a half-hour break. Ernie and I hustled back to the CID office.

“Where the hell you guys been?” Riley said.

“In court,” I replied.

“Where you belong,” he growled. “How many years they going to put you away for?”

I ignored him and checked my messages. Nothing from Mr. Kill. “Did you talk to personnel?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He tossed a sheaf of paperwork at me. “There’s your man. Worked for the Central Locker Fund two years ago. Specialist Five. Got out after four years active duty, chose an in-country discharge.”

“He didn’t go back to the States?” Ernie asked.

“That’s what in-country discharge means,” Riley replied.

I studied the folder. A black-and-white photo was attached to it. Ernie glanced at it.

“That’s the Ville Rat alright.”

It was unmistakably him. Except that instead of an Afro, he had a short haircut that didn’t accentuate the bright color of his hair. But it was the same narrow face, the same pointed chin, and a grim set to his mouth, as if he’d been observing something of which he didn’t completely approve. His name tag said Penwold. The personnel folder gave his first name as Orrin and his middle initial as W.

“Orrin W. Penwold,” Ernie said. “No wonder he calls himself Rat.”

He’d been a supply clerk who got lucky. First, he’d been transferred from Fort Hood, Texas, to Korea, skipping Vietnam, which was a good thing in and of itself, and then he’d hit the jackpot. Apparently there’d been an opening at the Central Locker Fund at about the same time he arrived and he’d been assigned to fill it. Despite acting like he didn’t give a damn, Riley had taken it upon himself to request the TO amp;E, or the Table of Operations and Equipment, from personnel. Every unit and operating section in the army had one. It spelled out what type of personnel and equipment was authorized and budgeted for. The Central Locker Fund was authorized only one active-duty NCO. Everyone else who worked there, like the boss, Rick Mills, was either a Department of the Army Civilian or a local Korean hire. Being a GI in an all-civilian unit meant that you’d be the gopher, the guy all the shit jobs fell to, but it also meant that you didn’t have to put up with a lot of military baloney, like extra training and duty on the weekends. In other words, the Central Locker Fund was a prime assignment.

“Who has the job now?” Ernie asked.

“The guy we saw when we were out there, Master Sergeant Demoray.”

“Must be nice,” Ernie said, “to roll out of shit and fall into clover.”

“I need one more thing,” I told Riley.

“What?” he barked.

I leaned across his desk and said it softly. “On the QT. Can you get me Rick Mills’s address?”

“Out on the economy?”

“Yeah. CPO must have it.” The Civilian Personnel Office.

I knew he was about to ask what I needed it for, but then he thought better of it and tightened his narrow lips. “You’ll owe me,” he said.

Last night, moonlight streamed in from an open window. Leah Prevault-also known as Captain Prevault-lay snuggled in my arms. She sighed and raised herself to tell me what she’d learned.

“Sergeant Orgwell is in an advanced state of denial,” she said. “Clearly, he lives a double life and hates himself for it. I want you to stay away from him.” She placed two soft fingers on my lips. “To protect himself, he could even resort to violence.”

“And Threets?” I asked.

“Also dangerous. Because of the trauma and humiliation he experienced, he could explode in rage.”

“So you believe he’s telling the truth?”

“I believe he experienced a deep and personal trauma. Whether it was because of Sergeant Orgwell or someone else, I can’t be sure.”

“You could’ve called me. Left a message with Miss Kim.”

“She seems like a nice woman.”

“She is.”

“But I wanted to tell you myself.”

“I’m glad you did. I want to see you again.”

She rose from the bed and stepped toward me. “Name the time and place,” she said.

After the recess, Second Lieutenant Conroy walked forward like a kid about to deliver an oral report in front of the class. He swallowed hard and then started to talk.

“Let the record show,” he said, “that we will offer testimony that the defendant Private First Class Clinton Threets of Charley Battery of the Second of the Seventeenth Field Artillery Battalion was subject to harassment and homosexual assault that resulted in severe mental stress and . . .”

The presiding officer banged his gavel.

“Lieutenant Conroy, you were informed during the pre-trial proceedings that these unfounded allegations were not going to be allowed into my courtroom.”

“Yes, sir, but . . .”

“Not buts about it. I’m not going to allow this trial to be used to smear the reputation of an outstanding senior NCO with a long-standing record of excellent job performance. Now, if you plan to get into training or discipline issues, then that could be considered.” In the stands, the Gunslinger squirmed. “But only if you’re planning on presenting the court with concrete evidence.”

“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Conroy’s head drooped and he walked back to the defense table. He glanced at Ernie and me desperately, knowing that he couldn’t call us to the stand to testify about Threets’s allegations of assault or Sergeant Orgwell’s violent reaction to those allegations. There was no doubt that Threets had shot Orgwell; Lieutenant Mendelson’s prosecution case had established that beyond a reasonable doubt, so without mitigating circumstances, the defense case was pretty much blown to smithereens. There was only one thing left for Conroy to do.

“If it please the court,” he said, “I call the accused, Private First Class Clifton Threets, to the stand.”

“So ordered,” the presiding judge said.

Threets rose from his chair and, still in shackles, shuffled forward. Quickly, he was read the oath by the clerk of court, said “I do,” and took his seat on the witness stand.

The whole questioning process was painful. Conroy was nervous and Threets’s voice was hollow and barely audible. One kept longing for a grown-up to take over. Still, the two young men did manage to present the pertinent testimony. Threets had just started to tell of how he was called into the day room by SFC Orgwell when Lieutenant Mendelson sprang to her feet to object.

“Your Honor,” she said, “this is the very hearsay evidence that you said you would not allow into your courtroom.”

The judge thought about it. “I won’t allow it as hearsay evidence. But as direct testimony from the accused, I will allow it. He has a right to testify in his own defense. However, the court will consider the self-serving nature of such testimony.”

Which was sort of like saying to Threets, you can tell us your side of the story, but don’t expect us to believe you.

Ernie sneered. “The judge is just afraid of getting overturned on appeal.”

Threets continued his testimony.

In the day room, Threets was being given solo counseling and had been told what an outstanding soldier he was when SFC Orgwell started to touch him.

The crowd murmured in indignation. Threets lowered his head. When the murmuring subsided, Lieutenant Conroy prodded him to continue.

When Threets objected to Sergeant Orgwell’s advances, there was a brief shouting match. They wrestled for a while, but eventually Threets shoved Orgwell away and escaped from the room. Later, it played on his mind. Who was this senior NCO to try to take advantage of him like that? What if Orgwell told Threets’s buddies? What if he tried it again? What if word got out and people thought Threets had gone along with it?

“Would you say,” Lieutenant Conroy asked, “that you held a grudge against Sergeant Orgwell?”

“Yes,” Threets replied. “It plays on my mind, all day, all night. Pretty soon, that’s all I can think about.”

“And then you went to the range?”

“He was there.” Involuntarily, Threets glanced at the wounded SFC Orgwell seated in the stands. “And he smiled at me.”

“What did you think when he smiled at you?”

“I couldn’t take it. He act like him and me, we got a secret. We don’t. I couldn’t take it.”

“What did you do?”

“I shot him.” Threets shook his head. “I shouldn’t have done it, but I did.” Threets sat up straighter and stared right at Orgwell. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you shoulda left me alone.”

Using an aluminum crutch, Orgwell stood up. “He’s lying!” he yelled. “I never touched him! I never invited him into the day room! He shot me because I’m white and he’s black!”

The presiding officer pounded his gavel and shouted, “Order!”

Someone next to Orgwell stood and grabbed his shoulders and tried to calm him down. When Orgwell sat back down, the presiding officer asked Lieutenant Conroy if he had any further questions of the witness. When he said he didn’t, Conroy took his seat and the prosecutor, Lieutenant Peggy Mendelson, approached Threets.

“Private Threets,” she asked, “how long have you been in the army?”

Hanging his head, Threets mumbled something.

“What? Speak up for the court, please.”

Threets sat up straighter and said. “Two years, almost.”

“And during that two years, did your training include any information about the chain of command?”

Threets nodded.

Peggy Mendelson sighed and addressed the court. “Sir, would you please instruct the accused that he needs to answer the questions verbally, not with head nodding.”

The presiding officer did. Lieutenant Mendelson asked the question again, and Threets acknowledged that he had received training concerning the chain of command.

“And Private Threets, who is your immediate supervisor?”

“Sergeant Rohmer.”

“And who’s he?”

“My gun crew chief.”

“Did you inform Sergeant Rohmer about the incident with Sergeant Orgwell?”

Threets shook his head negatively.

“Out loud, please,” Lieutenant Mendelson said.

“No,” Threets responded.

“And in your chain of command, who is above Sergeant Rohmer?”

“First Sergeant Bolton.”

“And did you inform First Sergeant Bolton about your disagreement with Sergeant Orgwell?”

Again Threets said he hadn’t.

Lieutenant Mendelson continued on like this, asking Threets about his battery commanding officer and the battalion CO and so on, until finally she said, “So you never attempted to resolve your problem by using the chain of command, did you, Private Threets?”

“No,” he replied.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust them.”

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t listen to us.”

“They don’t listen to you, meaning lower-ranking soldiers?”

“No. I mean they don’t listen to us black soldiers. They don’t give a damn about us.”

“Objection!”

Everyone in the court started at the strong command voice, and all heads swiveled. General Kokol, the Gunslinger, was red faced and on his feet. “That’s not true! The chain of command works. I see to it personally that it works and I make damn sure that our black soldiers are treated fairly.”

The presiding officer banged his gavel, then pointed it like a weapon at the Gunslinger. “General Kokol, with all due respect to your rank, you are to please refrain from interrupting these proceedings.”

The Gunslinger shook a bony finger at Threets. “But he’s lying!”

Ernie elbowed me. I turned to see three black soldiers standing in the entranceway. Two of them I recognized. The same guys Ernie had talked to and shared a reefer with behind the Charley Battery motor pool up at Camp Pelham.

“Who you calling a liar?” one of them shouted. His name tag said Burlington and his rank was corporal. He stepped into the room and his two buddies followed. “My man Threets be innocent!” he shouted. “That guy,” he continued, pointing at Orgwell, “laid hands on him. He laid hands on the brother!”

By now everyone was shouting. The Gunslinger stepped toward them, ordering the three young men out of the courtroom. Involuntarily, his left hand reached for the hilt of one of his pearl-handled revolvers. The black GIs surged forward, bypassing the old general, reaching Threets and greeting him with fists tapping on fists. The Gunslinger’s aide tried to pull him back, away from the men. The presiding judge kept banging on his gavel, shouting at the MPs to clear the courtroom, and finally they reacted-not approaching the skinny old man with the revolvers, but the three young black men surrounding Threets. When the first MP grabbed the closest man, he resisted. Punches were thrown, and by now the Gunslinger had pushed his aide away and actually pulled one of the pistols out and waved it in the air. The MPs unsheathed their batons and started swinging. The black soldiers fought back.

Ernie and I were still seated, Ernie grinning ear to ear.

“We have to stop this,” I said.

“Can’t I enjoy it for just a little longer?”

“The Gunslinger’s about to shoot somebody.”

“Wouldn’t that be a hoot?”

We rose to our feet, but at the same moment, a squad of MP reinforcements bulled their way into the room. Batons swung everywhere, men shouted, and the Gunslinger fired a round into the air. I stepped toward him and held his wrist, making sure his pearl-handled revolver kept pointing at the ceiling.

“Let go of me, dammit!” he shouted.

“When you put the gun away,” I said.

Reluctantly, he lowered his hand and shoved the pistol back in its holster. “I’ll get you, Sween-o.”

The MPs left him alone as he and his aide stalked out the main entrance. The three Division soldiers who’d come to support Threets were handcuffed and thrown into the back of a quarter-ton truck. Threets was thrown in with them, along with Lieutenant Conroy.

“He’s the defense counsel,” I told one of the MPs.

He shrugged. “Colonel’s orders.”

The presiding judge glared at us, apparently wondering if he should have us arrested too. Fortunately, he didn’t give the order.