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.”