«Do you think they’ll really get out?»
«We’ll see.»
47
«I’m sorry. I think my letter makes clear the Army’s position in the matter. I’m sure Major Bonner appreciates your retaining attorneys for him. From what I gather, there’s every reason to anticipate a civilian acquittal.»
«But you’re still going ahead with your own charges, General Cooper; you want him out of the Army.»
«We have no choice, Mr. Trevayne. Bonner’s stepped out of line once too often. He knows it. There’s no defense against dereliction, disregarding the chain of command. Without that chain we have no military organization, sir.»
«I’ll insist on seeing him defended in the court-martial proceedings, of course. Again, with my attorneys present.»
«You’re wasting your money. The adjutant charge isn’t murder or assault or even criminal intent. It’s simply one of lying to an A.F. officer; misrepresenting his orders so as to gain access to government property. In this case, a jet aircraft. Furthermore, he refused to inform his superiors of his intentions. We simply can’t tolerate that kind of behavior. And Bonner is inclined to repeat this type of offense. There’s no sound military justification.»
«Thank you, General. We’ll see.»
Andrew hung up the phone and got out of his chair. He walked over to his office door, which he’d shut prior to his call to General Cooper. He opened it and spoke to his secretary.
«I saw the light on two; anything I should take care of, Marge?»
«The Government Printing Office, Mr. Trevayne. I didn’t know what to say. They wanted to know when you’d be sending over the subcommittee report. They’re getting backlogged with congressional stuff and didn’t want to disappoint you. I started to tell them it was completed and sent out late this morning, but I thought perhaps there was some kind of protocol we didn’t know about.»
Trevayne laughed. «I’ll bet they didn’t want to disappoint us! Lord! The eyes are everywhere, aren’t they?… Call them back and tell them we weren’t aware they expected our business. We saved the taxpayers’ money and did it ourselves. All five copies. But first get me a cab. I’m going over to Arlington. To Bonner.»
During the ride from the Potomac Towers to the Army BOQ, Arlington, Andy tried to understand Brigadier General Lester Cooper and his legion of righteous indignants. Cooper’s letter—the reply to his inquiry about Bonner—had been couched in Army jargon.
Section this, Article that; Army regulations pertinent to the disposition of authority under the conditions of limited responsibility.
«Horseshit,» as Paul Bonner said—far too often for his own good.
The threat of the court-martial charge wasn’t the Army’s abhorrence of Bonner’s behavior; it was its abhorrence of Bonner himself. If it was explicitly the behavior in principle, far more serious charges would have been filed against him, charges that could be argued back and forth. As it was, the Army chose the lesser indictment. Dereliction. Misprision, or concealment of intentions. Charges from which there would be no hard-won vindication. Not a slap-on-the-wrist; more a strap-on-the-back. It left the defendant no choice but to resign; there was no career left for him in the military.
He simply couldn’t win the fight, because there was no fight. Just a pronouncement.
But why, for God’s sake? If ever there was a man made for the Army, it was Paul Bonner. If ever there was an army that needed such a man, it was the demoralized Army of the United States. Instead of prosecuting him, Cooper and the rest of his «Brasswares» should be out beating the bushes for Bonner’s support.
Beating the bushes. What had Aaron Green said about «beating bushes?» Beating bushes was an undesirable tactic, because the quarry could turn on the hunter without warning.
Was that what the Army was afraid of?
That by supporting Paul Bonner, acknowledging his participation, his commitment to the military, the Army was exposing its own vulnerability?
Were Lester Cooper and his uniformed tribunals afraid of a surprise attack?
From whom? A curious public? That was understandable. Paul Bonner was a knowledgeable accessory.
Or were they afraid of the accessory? Afraid of Paul Bonner? And by discrediting him, they conveniently pushed him out of the picture, out of any frame of reference.
A nonperson.
Banished.
The taxi came to a stop at the gates of the BOQ. Trevayne paid the driver and started walking toward the huge entrance with the gold eagle over the double doors and the inscription: «Through These Portals Pass the Best Damned Men in the Field.»
Andrew noticed that to the right, underneath the inscription, was the date of the building’s construction: «April, 1944.»
History. Another era. A lifetime ago. A time when such inscriptions were perfectly natural, properly heroic.
The days of the disdainful cavaliers.
They were no more. They seemed a little silly now.
That, too, was unfair, thought Trevayne.
The guard outside Paul Bonner’s room acknowledged Trevayne’s presence, his standing access to the officer under barracks arrest, and opened the door. Bonner was seated at the small steel desk writing on a sheet of Army stationery. He turned in the chair and glanced up at Trevayne. He did not stand or offer his hand.
«I’ll just finish this paragraph and be right with you.» He returned to the paper. «I think I’m considered a spit-and-polish moron. Those two lawyers you hired are making me put everything I can remember down in writing. Said one thought leads to another if you see it in front of you, or something like that.»
«It makes sense. The sequence of thoughts, I mean. Go ahead; no hurry.» Trevayne sat down in the single armchair and kept silent until Bonner put down his pencil and shifted his position, throwing his shoulder over the back of the chair as he looked at the «civilian.»
And he was looking at a «civilian»; there was no mistaking the insult.
«I’ll pay you back for the legal fees. I insist on that.»
«Not necessary. It’s the least I can do.»
«I don’t want you to do it. I asked them to bill me directly, but they said that wasn’t possible. So, I’ll pay you… Frankly, I’m perfectly satisfied with my Army counsel. But I suppose you have your reasons.»
«Just added insurance.»
«For whom?» Bonner stared at Trevayne.
«For you, Paul.»
«Of course. I shouldn’t have asked… What do you want?»
«Maybe I’d better go out and come in again,» said Andrew with a questioning harshness. «What’s the matter with you? We’re on the same side, remember?»
«Are we, Mr. President?»
The sound of the words was like the crack of a lash across Trevayne’s face. He returned Bonner’s stare, and for several moments neither man spoke.
«I think you’d better explain that.»
So Major Paul Bonner did.
And Trevayne listened in astonished silence as the Army officer recounted his brief but extraordinary conversation with the soon-to-retire Brigadier General Lester Cooper.
«So nobody has to tell any elaborate stories anymore. All those complicated explanations aren’t necessary.»
Trevayne got out of the chair and walked to the small window without speaking. There was a contingent—a platoon, perhaps—of young second lieutenants being lectured to by a wrinkle-faced full colonel in the courtyard. Some of the young men moved their feet, several cupped their hands to their lips, warding off the December chill in Arlington. The Colonel, open-shirted, laconic, seemed oblivious to the climate.