“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.”