Dress Gray

Home > Other > Dress Gray > Page 35
Dress Gray Page 35

by Lucian K. Truscott


  That’s where Slaight was now, taking the stairs to the corn’s office two at a time, cap in his left hand, khakis slapping, slapping … slap … slap … slap … wetly against his calves with every step. He was inside the logic, inside the hole, and he didn’t know what in hell was going on.

  28

  The door was open.

  “Slaight. Good to see you, young man. Come on in.” Brigadier General Charles Sherrill Hedges was down at the end of his office, seated behind his desk, waving at Slaight with his left hand. Slaight assumed the position.

  “Sir, Mr. Slaight reports to the commandant of cadets as ordered.”

  Hedges returned the salute, indicated the chair next to his desk.

  “Sit down. Sit down! God damn! Good to see you. How was your summer? Get your fill?” The general chuckled. He was sitting sideways, one leg crossed, hands behind head. A carbon. Slaight in the same chair. Exactly the same as that day in June.

  “Fine, sir. My summer was fine.”

  “I heard you did a hell of a job out there at Leonard Wood. One hell of a job. Your battalion commander called me the other day to say so. You were the only cadet on AOT in that training brigade, weren’t you?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Well, mister, you left one hell of an impression on those people out there. You were a credit to the Corps, Slaight. A credit. Your battalion C.O.—a colonel … whatshisname?”

  “Perdue, sir.”

  “Yes. Colonel Perdue. He said you taught all the battalion classes. That true?”

  “Yessir.”

  “How many hours in all? He told me. I can’t recall.”

  “Seventy-seven, sir.”

  “Seventy-seven! In thirty days. God damn, Slaight. You did a fine job. Outstanding, young man. Outstanding.” Hedges rocked back and forth on his tilting chair. He gazed across the area. Slaight hadn’t been called in six hours after his return to the academy to be congratulated for his performance on AOT. Chummy. Hedges was being chummy. Slaight waited.

  “Slaight, I haven’t got much time this afternoon—got to be over at the supe’s office in, let me see, twelve minutes. But I called you in this afternoon to let you know that my offer—the one we spoke about in June—the offer still stands. A battalion, Slaight. Your own battalion. You still interested?”

  “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

  “The battalion, Slaight. You recall we spoke about making you a battalion commander.”

  “Yessir. And I also recall that we spoke about the fact that I’m in the middle of the class in Aptitude, and that I stand about six hundred in General Order of Merit.”

  “Fuck the G.O.M. And fuck Aptitude! Your performance out there at Leonard Wood on AOT is all I need, young man. You know that?”

  “I guess so, sir.”

  “You guess! You did a damn find job, an outstanding job for that battalion, and you know it, Slaight. Come on, mister. Buck up.”

  “Yessir.”

  Hedges dropped his foot and rocked forward in his chair. He placed his hands on the desk. His nails were immaculately manicured—pale glowing moons against the light tan of his fingers.

  “There remains only one other matter for us to discuss then. The accidental drowning of Cadet David Hand.”

  Slaight looked at Hedges. Accidental drowning. He wasn’t wasting any time.

  “It has come to my attention that your interest in the Hand matter has … ah … continued. Is this correct?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Your opinions about the Hand drowning—are they the same as they were when last we spoke on this subject?”

  “They are, sir.”

  “You believe he was murdered, then.”

  “Yessir. I do.”

  “Have you … ah … taken any action, as regards the Hand matter?”

  “Action, sir?”

  “Official. Have you taken any action … official action. Have you done anything in a … ah … legal sense, Slaight?”

  “Nosir. Nothing official.”

  “Have you formed any opinions as to who might have committed this murder you believe took place? You still believe the official disposition of the case was … incorrect?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Yessir, what?”

  “I mean, yessir. I have some opinions. And yessir, I believe the official disposition of the case was incorrect. I believe the man was killed.”

  Hedges stiffened. He ran his thumbs along his belt line, taking the wrinkles out of the front of his khaki shirt. With his left thumb, he brushed his Airborne wings.

  “You have names, Slaight?”

  “Yessir.”

  “How many?”

  “Six, sir.”

  “You believe he was murdered by six people?”

  “Nosir.”

  “What do you believe, mister?”

  “I believe one of the six men whose names I have may have murdered him, sir.”

  “I see.”

  Suddenly it was clear. Hedges had sucked him in! He’d been so busy watching his step, he’d missed it completely. Hedges acted as if Slaight had stated definitively in June that he believed Hand was murdered, when, in fact, all he had done was acknowledge he’d spoken with Consor. It was Consor who figured Hand was murdered. The opinion had not been Slaight’s, it was Consor’s! Hedges had slipped one past him. He’d gotten Slaight to commit. He was on record as believing Hand was murdered now. No turning back.

  “These six names, Slaight. Do you have them with you?”

  “Yessir.” What to do? There was something in there … something Hedges said. Something logical. Think, goddammit. Think. Logic. How the fuck did Hedges lead into it? The battalion … Hand … any official action … that was it. Official. Fuck.

  “Sir. May I say something?”

  “What is it, mister? Make it quick. I’ve got to be at the supe’s in a couple of minutes.”

  “Sir, I’d like to make an official report. You are the commandant of cadets, sir. You are the commander, sir. I’d like to make an official report to you, sir, in your capacity as commandant of cadets. I’m going to give you the six names, sir.” Slaight reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a piece of folded yellow legal paper. He withdrew a pen from his shirt pocket, carefully buttoning the flap. He began writing the names on the yellow legal paper.

  “The six names, sir, are names of cadets or graduates, sir—officers, sir. I have strong reason to believe that one of these men is the man who murdered David Hand, sir.” He continued writing. Hedges stared at him. If Hedges could make an assumption and operate from that position, so could Slaight. What could be more obvious—more logical—than making an official report? Doing his duty. That’s what he was doing. His duty. He handed the sheet of paper with the six names to Hedges. He glanced at his watch. It was 5:57. He was banking that Hedges had to see the supe at six….

  “This comes as … something of a shock … mister,” said Hedges, taking the sheet of paper from Slaight.

  “You asked me if I had taken any official action, sir. I hadn’t. Not until now. You have the names now, sir. All six of them. If you want to know how I got these names, sir …”

  “Mr. Slaight. I have to be going …”

  “If you want to know how I got these names, sir, I can tell you quickly. David Hand was recruited. One of these six men recruited him, on a trip to New Orleans, part of the cadet recruiting program. And that man is, if my reckoning is correct, the man you’re looking for, sir.” Hedges held the sheet of paper and stood up slowly. Two can play this game. Hedges was standing now, holding the piece of paper in front of him like it was poisoned. Slaight stood up.

  “Mister. You let me handle this from now on, you understand me? You got that?” Hedges glared at Slaight. It was the first time Slaight had seen him show anger. Real anger. Hedges was pissed, and he wasn’t taking the time—he didn’t have the time—to hide it.

  “I’ve got your six goddamn names. Now, you let me handle this
thing. You hear me, Slaight? You obviously didn’t take the advice I gave you last summer. This case is hands off. You understand that, mister. Hands off. You let me handle this. If I hear that you …” Hedges’ lips quivered. “If I hear that you have anything more to do on this Hand thing, Slaight, I’ll rip you a new asshole. You understand me?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You won’t know what hit you, got that, Slaight?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Now, post out of here, and don’t let me hear another goddamn word about you. You got that, Slaight? Not one fucking word.”

  “Yessir. Good afternoon, sir.” Slaight saluted and left. Hedges was still standing there, holding the sheet of paper. Slaight could see him from the area, through the big windows of the commandant’s office. Hedges and Slaight’s six names. God damn.

  Captain Bassett was puffing on a pipe when Slaight knocked on his door. Bassett nodded in the direction of a metal-frame U.S. government issue office chair and sat down. He told Bassett everything that had happened up in Hedges’ office. Bassett chuckled, sending little puffs of acrid smoke out his dime-size nostrils, when Slaight told him about making an “official report,” about Hedges standing there with the sheet of paper with the six names on it, just standing there, holding the paper … how pissed he got. Bassett chuckled and nodded. Then he pulled his pipe out of his mouth and said:

  “You know what my advice is right now, Mr. Slaight? I advise you, as your lawyer, to do just as the commandant said. Sit back and let him handle it. You’ve done your duty. Lay low. Don’t give him the tiniest reason to notice you … not the least reason to come down on you. My advice to you is disappear.” Slaight nodded his assent. But the question he’d asked Bassett earlier still nagged him.

  “Sir, you didn’t seem too shocked when I told you the whole story this afternoon. You just took it all down. Now I want to know what’s going on. For the life of me, I can’t figure it. This stuff is beginning to drive me crazy. What have we got here at West Point, anyway? A nest of faggots? This kid Hand isn’t just some kind of freak. I want to know what’s going on. The whole thing has me … I don’t know what to believe any more.”

  “Well, Mr. Slaight, I’ve been here two years. There have been instances in the past …” Bassett puffed on his pipe, tamping it with the eraser end of a pencil.

  “What goddamn instances? When?”

  “Last year. An officer and a cadet were caught flagrante delicto down in North Auditorium one night after taps. The cadet was medically discharged. I don’t know what happened to the officer. Two other cadets were medically discharged for homosexuality … that was over a year ago, I believe.”

  “Jesus. I didn’t know about any of this.”

  “They don’t exactly issue press releases every time they get rid of someone, Slaight.”

  “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  “I’m sure you have heard about the cadet ‘flashers,’ the exhibitionists.”

  “I’ve heard about them. We had one in our company two years ago. The one they called the ‘Phantom.’ He got away with dropping trou for six months before they caught him one night, down at the bottom of the ramp leading up to New South Area.”

  “Ah, yes. The ‘Phantom.’ I recall the case. He was medically discharged.”

  “They medical-discharge all these guys?”

  “Not much choice. Any other type of discharge requires too much paperwork. Hearings. A medical can be expedited. They get one of the exhibitionists on the bus and out the gate in a couple of days.”

  “Christ. I didn’t know that.”

  “Indeed. Now. Getting back to your question, as to whether or not there’s a ‘nest’ here … I just don’t know, Slaight. The psychiatrist, over at the hospital, his wife is friendly with my wife. We live on the same block up in Cornwall. She’s told my wife quite a few stories. The shrink never sees any of the officers stationed here, of course. My God, think how that would look on your record! April 4. Major So-and-So visited the post psychiatrist. Diagnosis: mild anxiety. Prescription: five milligram Librium. Can you imagine?” Bassett laughed.

  “Yeah. They’d love that down at the Pentagon.”

  “Sure. The promotion boards would have a field day with a prescription for Librium. So. The shrink doesn’t see any of the officers, but he sees plenty of their wives. His wife and my wife have discussed his—shall we say—practice over a few cups of coffee. Let’s put it this way. Here at West Point, there are certain problems among the officer corps. I wouldn’t imagine that they are any different in nature than those on any army post. But the atmosphere at the academy exacerbates the problems. To put it bluntly, the main problems are alcoholism and impotence. There are quite a few unhappy wives on this post. I don’t know what the divorce rate is. I doubt that it would differ significantly from, say, that of a major American corporation. But here, problems are forced beneath the surface of things and held there. By the time an officer gets to be a major, by the time he’s got ten or twelve years service, the last thing he wants is to make even a ripple on the surface of the pond. The last thing.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Now, this David Hand business. My guess is that it’s an isolated incident. If all that you say is true, and I have no doubt that it is, Hand looks to me like a—shall we say—exceptional figure. If he’s as intelligent as you say he was …”

  “Oh, he was smart, all right. You better believe that.”

  “Yes. Well, if he was as smart as you say, there may have been a touch of blackmail involved. If not blackmail, then paranoia. The man who killed Hand may have feared that Hand was going to expose him in some way. Hand sounds to me like the type who would excite, let us say, a reasonable fear that he might do something. You’ve been here three years, haven’t you, Slaight?”

  “Three years. Three long goddamn years.”

  “Then you no doubt have noticed that this place—West Point, I mean—fairly bubbles along a little current of fear. It’s like … fuel. It’s what makes the place go. Easy to find. Nonperishable. And invisible.”

  “I don’t guess I’ve ever thought about things that way, Captain. Jesus. Does that apply when it comes to my tac, Major Grimshaw?”

  “Grimshaw? He’s your tac?”

  “Yeah. A real winner. He had me up in his office this afternoon, chewing my ass because the com found out he kept me on the area last May when Major Consor, the doctor, wanted to medically excuse me from the area for my feet. They were really fucked up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Grimshaw put out the word that nobody in our company could take a medical excuse from area formation. He said he’d double our hours if we did. So I had to walk … everybody had to walk … no matter what was wrong with you. We had guys on the area last winter who had the goddamn flu, sick, puking, everything. It was ridiculous.”

  “You’re wrong, Slaight. It was criminal.”

  “I guess that’s one way of looking at it. Yeah.”

  “You said he was chewing you out today?”

  “Yeah. He’s making me go on sick call every week now. Wants me to put a manila folder on my bunk every Saturday morning for inspection, containing my sick slips. He told me to stencil ‘Slaight’s Sick-Call Report’ on the folder. Christ. He’s really out for my ass. He’s gonna do everything he can to put me back on the area.”

  “I’ll tell you, Mr. Slaight. What this Major Grimshaw has told you to do is a violation of army regulations. No commander can humiliate his subordinate because he has gone on sick call. This goes back to the incident in World War II—the Patton thing. There’s a clause in the 600–200 series … I’ll find it for you, if you want.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Anyway, there is a specific clause, intended to prevent just such behavior. You would be fully within your rights if you chose to simply ignore Grimshaw’s order that you display a sick-call report. I’ve had my eye on this Grimshaw character for
a while now. It looks to me like he’s going too far, this time.”

  “What do you mean, this time?”

  “We had one of the kids from your company down here last year, looking for some advice about his bank account. It seems that the bank computer said he overdrew his account, when actually he did not. The computer made an error in the hundreds column, indicated a huge overdraft. Grimshaw wrote the kid up, gave him a fifteen and twenty. The kid wrote an ‘Explanation of Report,’ and then a ‘Reconsideration of Award,’ both of them showing his checkbook figures, proving that he hadn’t overdrawn his account. Grimshaw ignored him. The kid walked off the fifteen and twenty. Then he received a letter from the bank, apologizing for the computer error. The kid had already walked off his hours. He came down to see us—me, actually—wanting to know if there was anything he could do to get the fifteen demerits rescinded. I helped him draft another ‘Reconsideration of Award,’ appending the letter from the bank. He sent it up, and Grimshaw rifled it right back to the kid, called him up to his office and threatened him, told him if he took the ‘Reconsideration’ any higher, he’d get him. Scared the pants off the kid. I tried to get him to go to the wall with Grimshaw, but the kid was too scared. If I had known he was pulling that crap about sick call—not permitting his men to receive proper medical attention—I’d have brought him up on charges myself.”

  “What do you think I ought to do? If I just disobey his order, what happens to your ‘lay low’ strategy? That goes out the window, doesn’t it?”

  “Good point. Tell you what. You make up the manila folder like he told you. Then, if you feel like going on sick call, go. If you don’t, then don’t go. Leave the damn thing empty. See what he does. If he so much as utters a word to you about it, let me know. I’ll dig up the regulation, and I’ll pay him a personal visit. I’ve got enough on Grimshaw right now, with what you’ve told me, to put the son of a bitch in Leavenworth. There’s nothing I’d like better than to nail him. These bastards in the Tactical Department think they’re … gods. My, my. You have got me excited about this.” Bassett knocked his pipe on the heel of his shoe and began reloading it.

 

‹ Prev