“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...