Casualties of War: The Advocate Trilgy Page 11

  Harry shook his head, confused.

  Halverson leaned forward with arch conspiratoriality. “The military, my dear Major, has a long, illustrious history of crucifixion. Kimmel couldn’t’ve really done anything to save the Navy at Pearl, and there wasn’t squat Fredendall could’ve done about Kasserine, but they both wound up on a cross. The night Donophan went up...that was my Kasserine. Markham made the point that the only way for me to mitigate the situation — if there was any way to mitigate the situation — was with some sort of a stunt. Something that would play very nicely in Life: ‘The Fighting 351st: Broken But Unbowed.’ Extremely inspirational. People do not crucify inspirations.”

  “And you believed Markham.”

  “Because I wanted to, I suppose.” Halverson’s voice was no longer that of conspirator, but the intimate, aching confessor. “Major, I’ve been in the Army all my adult life. I don’t know anything else. I could try to make myself look a little less selfish, I suppose, and make the whole sick affair seem somewhat more noble by saying I did it for the men. And that’d at least be partly true.

  “Do you know what the average age of the pilots in my command is? Twenty. I’ve got a son older than that flying Marine Corsairs in the Solomons. If something happened to my kid, I know I’d want somebody to — Let’s just say I felt I owed the 351st something more than taking that kind of beating like a whipped dog. Those boys deserved better than that.

  “Or maybe I could say I did it because Frank Adams was my friend, and when I see his wife I want to be able to say to her that we got something back for him, blood for blood.”

  Halverson stirred restlessly, finally pulling himself from his chair to return to the windows. The general lit a fresh cigarette, blowing the smoke out through an open pane of crimson glass. “You have more questions?”

  “How badly was Donophan hit?”

  “There’s a folder on my desk. Take it with you if you like. It’s the report on their losses. Donophan was caught flat-footed. The Germans knocked out the RAF radar station near Hawkinge, then came through the hole with the raid on the field. The station’s comm links had been knocked out. By the time they got the word to RAF sector control, and they notified their superiors, then passed the word to their liaison to contact our liaison...” Halverson turned to Harry; he smiled sadly. “And so forth. I was told with sincere regret and condolences by the RAF that their people and our people have yet to work out a ‘smoothly integrated communications structure.’ The short of it is that by the time Donophan got the word, the German bombs were coming through their roof.”

  He turned back to the window and waved at someone Harry couldn’t see. “Over thirty percent support personnel killed or wounded; nearly half of all facilities destroyed or damaged; all on-site fuel and ordnance supplies destroyed; almost two thirds of all aircraft damaged or destroyed. If the Germans had perfected that kind of operation during the Blitz, we’d be fighting them from Greenland by now.” Halverson flicked his cigarette out the open pane. “Most of them were together in one shelter and the Germans pasted it square,” he said. “That left them with only five duty-fit pilots.”

  “Markham, Anderson, O’Connell, Jacobs, and McLagen.”

  Halverson nodded.

  “You didn’t waste much time in deciding to go ahead with the operation. Van Damm says the request for targets came down — ”

  “The following morning, yes. August the ninth. I wouldn’t say I’d made up my mind at that point, though. Actually, I never did. I was afraid not to go ahead with it, and once it began, I was afraid to stop it. The sin of omission as opposed to commission.” Halverson sat in his chair, looked to his glass, but made no move toward it. “In any case, we felt we had to move quickly. There was a lot of work to do and we were operating under the impression that we didn’t have much time to do it. The 351st didn’t have the on-hand materiel to mount the raid. Fuel, ordnance, and so on had to be requisitioned and brought in. And, I wanted a target selection and mission plan from Markham that was going to bring everybody home safe. We needed all this before General DiGarre made a decision on the disposition of the group. The same morning I asked Van Damm for targets, the general was asking me for an assessment of the damage to the 351st, and a recommendation on either deactivating the group and replacing it with a fresh one from the States, or rebuilding it around the surviving core. In either case, he would’ve stood the 351st down until they were up to operational strength. By that time, we expected that I would be deactivated and replaced, too...Funny how it worked out. The earliest we could get the mission together was Saturday morning: the thirteenth. I stalled on my report to DiGarre as long as I could, finally sent it up Friday, hoping it would take him a day or two to make a decision, which would still give us the mission.”

  “But it rained Saturday.”

  “Maybe that was somebody’s way of telling me I should’ve just scrubbed the whole thing.”

  “You held off until Monday.”

  “We needed a day for things to dry out. The auxiliary fuel tanks for the planes are made of some sort of heavy resin-treated paper. That’s what we’re using until they start delivering metal tanks. You need a fairly dry field to operate without metal tanks. So, Monday.”

  “And General DiGarre didn’t say anything in all that time?”

  “If General DiGarre had so much as frowned, that would’ve been all it would’ve taken for me to scrub.”

  “I was looking over the different targets that Major Van Damm had selected. Why the depot at Helsvagen? How was that target chosen?”

  “Simple pragmatics. We discounted the French targets because although they were closer, the fuel depots were easier targets. Touching off those fuel storage tanks isn’t as tricky as getting bombs on the money with those other targets. Of the fuel depots, the one at Helsvagen was closest. And — ” Halverson sighed “ — God help me, we did think that when one of the depots went up, it would have a certain necessary... ‘spectacle.’ Bombing a bridge in the middle of a swamp hardly seems what the broken but unbowed do, does it, Major?”

  Harry ignored the question. “One more thing, General. About the BDA flight over the target afterward. Or rather, why there wasn’t one. Whose decision was that?”

  “Like everything else, strictly speaking, it was mine. We had agreed, Al Markham and I, during the planning stages, that the mission was such a low priority, and the target so open, that it wouldn’t require a BDA flight. He was pretty sure — and I agreed with him — that the gun films from the raid would suffice. But we also agreed that we’d wait and see. If there was a need afterward we’d send one out.”

  “And how was that need to be determined?”

  “It was Markham’s call; he was the man on the spot.”

  “So, when he returned, he contacted you and said it wouldn’t be necessary.”

  “Right.”

  “Did you know the film magazine from Major Markham’s gun camera was found empty?”

  Halverson frowned. “No, I didn’t.”

  They were done. As Harry packed his things Halverson got to his feet. “Major, I have no intention of disavowing any responsibility I have in this matter.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I don’t know what your intentions or instructions are, other than those from Colonel Ryan and myself — ”

  “Sir, I have no — ”

  “ — but let’s go on the assumption that, as you said, for now you’re working for me. Major Markham cost me three men yesterday I didn’t have to lose.” Halverson waited for a few seconds for the tacit writ to sink in. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Harry said quietly.

  “Whatever it takes, Major. If you need anything from me...”

  Harry nodded. At the door, he stopped. The general had lowered himself back into his chair, cradling his glass in his hands.

  “General? I’m...sorry for your troubles, sir.” Halverson nodded listlessly. “Have a safe drive back.”

>   As Harry stood by his jeep in the car park he looked up at the windows of Halverson’s office. The general’s pale face was in one of the clear panes, lost in the mosaic of colored glass. Harry waved a farewell but Halverson made no sign that he’d seen him, his gaze locked on some point beyond the west horizon.

  *

  The charm which had served Joe Ryan so well for most of his life — the graceful bearing, the bright smile, the well-chosen bon mot — was also, in a way, his curse. Whenever his senior officers required one of their number to hobnob with the wing-collar-and-tiara set for purposes of diplomacy, or to entice an agreement for use of lands or other assets, or, simply — in a gesture of goodwill — to give a host and hostess an American officer to show off to their guests over cocktails, Ryan was the preferred tool. But even a born hobnobber like Ryan could grow tired of being displayed like the latest high-priced trinket from Harrods. Thus, his “invitation” to Harry to join him in such engagements. “If they turn out to be jerks,” he’d told Harry on previous occasions, “at least I can talk to you.”

  Which is why Harry, clad in GI socks and GI underwear and a GI bathrobe, was standing before the mirror in his quarters practicing his bow. He tried a shallow, curt move, just a cock of his head, really, something he remembered from a Claude Rains film. “How pleased to meet you, my lord, and this must be your lovely wife?” But then he worried that it would be considered forward to declare a lord’s wife “lovely.”

  He tried a deeper bow, something along the lines of Paul Henreid. “How do you do, my lord?” and offered his hand. Or perhaps he shouldn’t offer his hand. Who was supposed to offer a hand first and to whom?

  A sharp and formal bow this time: Conrad Veidt. No, it didn’t feel right without a click of the heels, and he thought it quite inappropriate for the Allies to click heels. “A sincere pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

  “That’s not how you do it,” Nagel was suddenly in the doorway with Harry’s cleaned Class A’s on a hanger draped over his shoulder.

  “You’re ruining the crease.” Harry snapped and grabbed the uniform away. “Don’t you knock? Were you born in a barn or something?”

  “I may not know when to knock, but I know how to do it.”

  “Do what? Nagel, are you sure these are my pants?” Harry was working up a sweat tugging on his trousers. “You’re sure those clowns down there — ”

  “That is not how you greet royalty,” Nagel interrupted, speaking with uncharacteristic conviction.

  “Didn’t I tell you to tell those clowns in the cleaning shop 1600 hours? Do you know what time it is? If I’m late, I’m going to skin — ”

  “I told them 1600 hours — ”

  “Damn!” Harry sucked in his belly and fastened the buckle. Had they done something to shrink his trousers? With a wheeze, he bent over to pull his shoes on. He managed only one before he had to come up for air. The air went right back out of him in a sigh when he saw Nagel still loitering in the doorway.

  “OK, Nagel, if it’ll make you happy. How do you greet royalty?”

  Nagel’s face broke into a satisfied smile. He bowed steeply, swept one arm across his middle and extended the other out behind him while one of his size twelves gingerly slid out in front of him. When he reached the farthest extremity of his dip, he lowered his voice and intoned, “Good evening, m’Luhd.” He looked up and saw Harry staring at him in unhappy amazement. “That,” Nagel announced, “is how it’s done. Didn’t you ever see Robin Hood?” He repeated the demonstration. “Good evening, m’Luhd.”

  “Good-bye, Nagel.”

  After chasing Nagel out, Harry pulled on his shirt and waddled into the bathroom to comb what there was of his hair. When he returned to the bedroom, Joe Ryan was perched on a corner of his dresser.

  “Jeez, you scared me! You trying to give me a heart attack or something?”

  “I don’t need to,” Ryan said, pointing at Harry’s straining trouser buckle. “Looks like you’re eating your way into one.”

  “It’s the damned cleaners. They did something to these pants.”

  “Now, isn’t that funny! That’s the first thing I thought, too. Joe, I said to myself, I’ll bet those guys in the laundry did something to poor Harry’s pants. I mean it couldn’t be that poor Harry is so god-almighty huge, could it? It must be those guys in the — ”

  “Why don’t you knock? Doesn’t anybody around here knock?”

  “C’mon, Harry, shake a leg. Should I get you a crowbar?”

  Harry’s thumb was stuck in the knot he tried to make in his tie. “Don’t give me any of this hurry-up stuff. You’re five minutes early.”

  Ryan held up his wrist, pulled up his sleeve with a Houdini-like flourish, and pointed to the face of his watch. “See this, Harry? This is a colonel’s watch. When I’m with a major, the major’s watch is always wrong, and this watch is always right. This watch says I’m on time. The only time this watch is wrong is when a general’s watch says different. Speaking of which, I had a very innnnteresting chat with a certain two-star general this morning.”

  Harry swallowed. “DiGarre?”

  “I tried to get in touch with you about it this morning, but — ”

  “You know how full my hands have been — ”

  “I know, I know, and that’s exactly what I told the general. But you have to understand, Harry; DiGarre’s concerned. He’s concerned because SHAEF’s concerned. That’s right, Harry. The word’s gotten that high up. I warned you that a lot of bigwigs were going to take an interest — ”

  “What’d he want?”

  “He wanted to know how things were going. How are things going, Harry?”

  Harry sat on the edge of his bed. The general may have been a general but that didn’t keep Harry from being annoyed with him. “How are things going? I’ve been on this thing all of a day and a half — ”

  “And in DiGarre’s eyes, that’s a day and a half too long. Don’t bark at me, Harry, I’m with you. But I told you they’d get nervous. I guess the general just wants to know that everything’s going along OK. Everything is going along OK, isn’t it?”

  Harry shrugged.

  “Do you think you can be a little more specific?”

  “The more I think about it, the more it doesn’t make sense.”

  “The ‘it’ in question being...?”

  “Something’s come up.”

  “Something.”

  “I don’t know if it makes a difference, but...did you know that Markham’s gun film is missing?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “G-2 opened up the film magazines when they got them back to London. Markham’s was empty.”

  Ryan processed Harry’s nagging little item and found a reason to grin. “Missing means nobody knows what happened to the film. It’s not missing, Harry. You know what happened to it. That little fink destroyed it.”

  Harry shrugged again.

  Once more with peace of mind, Ryan interlaced his fingers and bent them backward until the knuckles gave up a relaxing crack. “If you ask me, that makes things even more clear-cut. Markham’s the trigger man, making a pretty poor job of trying to cover his tracks.”

  “Maybe. But I keep running it over and over in my head and it doesn’t quite all fit together. I mean, why would Markham destroy the film?”

  “Harry, that better be a rhetorical question, or else I think I’ve grievously overestimated your abilities.”

  “Humor me. Why destroy the film?”

  “To conceal his dastardly crimes, of course.”

  “But there’s witnesses. Eyewitnesses. They saw him and he knows it.”

  “Which, no doubt, is why he tried to assassinate them.”

  “The Greshams were inside the house. He couldn’t be sure he’d gotten them.”

  “And he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t. He had to play it safe, so he destroyed the film.” Ryan slid his cap back and massaged his forehead. “Why do you have to aggravate me like this, Harry?
”

  “So, he destroys the film, thinks he’s taken care of the witnesses, then leaves a ton of ballistics evidence at the scene of the crime.”

  Ryan stood, brusquely brushing off the seat of his trousers. “Don’t you ever get anybody to dust in here?” he said tersely. He moved to the window and lit a cigarette, and considered. Then, “Markham’s a pilot, Harry, not a policeman. Maybe he doesn’t know as much about criminal ballistics analysis as you and me. Maybe it never occurred to him that the shells and slugs at the cottage could be traced to his guns.”

  “OK, let’s grant that. But he knows he left a bucketful of cartridge casings on the Gresham lawn that have U.S. Army ordnance markings.”

  “So maybe in the heat of the moment — ”

  “No! Not him! Not this guy! You should read this guy’s file some time. I’ve only had time to flip through his 66-1, but every page is high marks. Talk to some of the people who know him. Markham’s top of the line, Joe. You don’t get to be a combat officer with his ratings by losing your head when the heat gets hot.” The room felt close just then, and Harry only now realized how his pursuit of the point was pressing Ryan. He changed his tone and smiled mockingly. “Or do you? How’d you get all that brass?”

  Ryan welcomed the opportunity for a grin. “I live right. So...what’re you getting at with all this?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s nothing.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Harry, don’t run me through the wringer and wind up with that! You make it pretty damned hard to be sympathetic.”

  “If there is something going on here, Markham and Anderson are the only two who know what it is. I’d like to be on an even footing with them before I give them a chance to get their defense together.”

  Ryan pondered the point for a moment, then flicked his cigarette out the window and shook his head unhappily. “You can’t hold somebody without probable cause, Harry. Not even in the Army. If this were any DA’s office back home, we would’ve had to let these two go this morning.”