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.
Chapter Thirty-Three
February 16, 1945. Brabant Hall, Liège, Belgium. Friday, 0100 Hours.
General Adamson asked Major Karsh to wait in the anteroom of his office, a converted drawing room in one of the chateaus at Brabant Park. The general sat on a divan facing a marble fireplace topped by a dark wooden mantelpiece that held an ormolu clock and clusters of diminutive jade animals arranged among fronds of fir branches.
He adjusted his reading glasses and examined the envelope that Jackson Baird had addressed to Buell Docker. After studying the grain of the paper and Baird’s handwriting, he lifted the flap and removed the two sheets of ruled paper. “Lieutenant, there’s coffee on my desk. Also some brandy. Now let’s see what we’ve got here.” The general began reading Baird’s letter.