“Yes, sir.”
“What the hell has Lowell got to do with that trial, anyway? I wasn’t even aware they were acquainted.”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Keep me advised,” the general said.
Despite what he had said about wanting to avoid “any suggestion of command influence,” there was no doubt in Harrier’s mind that the General wanted Parker hung. He wondered why. Some personal feeling that Parker deserved punishment? Racial prejudice? There was something, otherwise they could have sent any other officer in the headquarters to “keep him advised.”
When the general’s chief of staff walked into the courtroom, the court would draw the obvious conclusion, that having decided to court-martial Parker, the general wanted a report on anyone who appeared to be trying to frustrate that desire.
Harrier walked down the hill from the White House and entered the tropical building with the sign SILENCE: COURT IN SESSION outside. There were two MPs outside the building, who saluted him, and two more inside the building, who pulled the door to the courtroom open for him.
He walked in and tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible in the rear of the small room. It was like trying to hide an elephant, he thought, under a tulip.
He was surprised at the initial steps of the trial. He had been a defense counsel in his younger days, and he would not have stricken from the court, on preemptory challenge, the two officers Lieutenant Bennington T. Morefield struck from it. They were a bird colonel and a lieutenant colonel, both wearing the Combat Infantry Badge. He would have kept them, as probably being sympathetic to another combat officer.
And he was surprised at Lieutenant Bennington T. Morefield’s behavior during the prosecution testimony. He had expected objection to practically everything the CID agents said, as well as the quoting of arcane legal principles which would be beyond the understanding of the court-martial officers.
He did nothing of the kind. He didn’t challenge the facts at all. The court could have no question in their minds that Captain Parker did in fact shoot the officer of the 24th Infantry who couldn’t find it in himself to stand and fight. The facts concerning who shot up the tank, the second charge, were even more clear, and General Harrier was surprised that Morefield didn’t even try to muddy those waters, to try to form a reasonable doubt, as much as he could, as Harrier would have done had he been in his place.
But this JAG lieutenant didn’t. He as much as admitted that Parker had indeed blown the other tank away.
The only thing he did, Harrier realized, was impress upon the court that the enlisted witnesses against Captain Parker testified against him with great reluctance and thought rather highly of him.
He asked each of them the same question: “Now, I realize that no one wants to go into combat, but if circumstances made it necessary for you to go back into combat, under the circumstances in which these events allegedly occurred, would you be in any way reluctant to serve under Captain Parker?”
And the answer was always the same: “No, sir.”
“Even if the allegations against Captain Parker are true?”
“No, sir. Or yes, sir. I mean, Captain Parker is a good officer.”
“You would have no fear that Captain Parker would go berserk and turn any weapons under his control on you, instead of the enemy?”
“No, sir.”
When the defense’s turn came, Morefield introduced classified after-action reports, which painted a clear picture of confusion, chaos, and cowardice on the battlefield, and which in three instances mentioned that Tank Company, 24th Infantry, had held its positions when the rest of the regiment had “withdrawn without orders.”
Score one for the defense, Harrier thought.
The next round, Harrier concluded, was lost. Colonel Howley, the regimental commander, who should have gone to bat for Parker, didn’t. Howley hadn’t brought the charges against him. The goddamn provost marshal had. Either Howley hadn’t known, at the time, what Parker had done—which was damned unlikely—or he had known and lent his tacit approval as something made necessary by the situation. If that was the case, he had a moral obligation to help Parker now. But Colonel Howley apparently lost his nerve once he got on the witness stand. If it had been his intention to do Parker any good, he failed. All he testified was that Parker was a good tank company commander.
On cross-examination, he discounted the chaos, confusion, and cowardice. He probably thinks it was a reflection on him, Harrier decided. Colonel Howley stated that he could conceive of no situation in which he, or any other combat commander, would have to resort to shooting an officer on the field of battle.
(Three years later, sitting on a secret Selection Board for Brigadier Generals, General Harrier would cast a nay vote regarding Colonel Howley. A single “nay” vote is sufficient to deny an officer the star of a general officer.)
“The defense calls Major Craig Lowell,” Lieutenant Bennington T. Morefield said, softly.
It occurred to Harrier for the first time that the officers on the court just might interpret Lowell’s appearance the wrong way; they might decide he was appearing with the blessing of himself and the command structure. Harrier felt the eyes of the members of the court flicker over to him, wondering if this was indeed a message from on high.
Lowell’s salute to the court-martial would have done credit to a cadet at West Point. His uniform was crisply starched and his boots glistened. The Combat Infantry Badge with Star (Second Award) glistened on his chest.
“Major Lowell,” Lieutenant Morefield said, “you have been called as a character witness in this case. You know the accused? And if so, will you point him out?”
Lowell pointed to Parker.
“Let the record show that Major Lowell pointed out the accused Captain Parker,” Morefield said. Then he turned to Lowell. “Major, you don’t know what happened on the dates in question, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t know any more about what really happened than I do, than the officers of the court know, than my learned opponent, the prosecutor, excuse me, the trial judge advocate, knows, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“What we’re all trying to do here today, Major, is to reach the facts in this case. And once we have the facts, to weigh them, to decide whether or not Captain Parker’s actions were detrimental to good military order and discipline.”
“Objection!” the trial judge advocate said, jumping to his feet. “What we are trying to determine here is whether or not the accused is guilty of violation of the 92nd Article of War, murder.”
The president of the court looked thoughtful.
“I’ll sustain that objection,” he said. “The court will ignore in its deliberations Lieutenant Morefield’s last comment.”
“With all respect, sir, I invite the court’s attention to the 92nd Article of War, which states that murder, and also rape, are offenses in that they are detrimental to good military order and discipline. Shall I read the Article, sir?”
“We can read it ourselves, thank you,” the president said, icily, and when he read it, said: “I don’t quite understand your point, Lieutenant.”
“Sir,” Morefield said, slowly, carefully, “the Congress in its wisdom has decided that the federal statutes which govern behavior of the civilian populace are not applicable to the military. Hence, the 1928 Manual for Courts-Martial and its precedent Articles of War. The difference, sir, is that under federal law, and the laws of the several states, murder, to use that as an example, is considered to be an offense against—a commonly used phrase—‘the peace and tranquility’ of the community. Military offenses, on the other hand, as the Congress has carefully spelled out, are those actions which are ‘detrimental to good military order and discipline.’”
“I think that’s nonsense,” the trial judge advocate said. “Murder is murder.”
“Are you trying to tell me, Lieutenant,” the president of the court asked, “that murder
is sometimes justified in order to preserve good military order and discipline?”
“What I am saying, sir, is that an action necessary to preserve good military order and discipline cannot be an offense.”
“That’s absolute nonsense, and you know it!” the trial judge advocate said furiously. “I’ve never heard such absurd reasoning!”
“The objection has been sustained,” the president said.
“Sir, with all respect, the defense enters an objection for the record, and in order that the appellate authorities might have all the facts clearly before them, should there be a conviction at this level, the defense respectfully requests that the court reporter read back from his notes what my statement was, the objection to it, my counterargument, and the court’s final decision.”
The court reporter read the whole thing back.
Clever as hell, Harrier thought. Morefield is giving them another chance to think over what he said. And there’s that threat of review.
General Harrier had been curious when Captain Philip S. Parker IV, on being advised that a Board of Inquiry had recommended his trial before a general court-martial and that the general had approved the recommendation, had requested that Lieutenant Bennington T. Morefield, Judge Advocate General’s Corps, 45th Division, be assigned as his defense counsel.
Whatever he was, Parker wasn’t stupid, and there had to be some reason he had asked for the services of a specific lieutenant, when he would have been able to pick any of the majors and lieutenant colonels of the IX Corps JAG office to defend him.
General Harrier had made discreet inquiries about Lieutenant Morefield, and learned that he was regarded as a smart-ass Harvard Law School type. He had been a deputy U.S. attorney in New York before being called into the service, where he had promptly earned a reputation at Fort Polk, Louisiana, for getting his accused off. Lieutenant Morefield had been sent to Korea with a subtle recommendation that his background and experience suited him for duty as a prosecutor.
Harrier said nothing to anyone about what he had learned about Parker’s defense counsel. For one thing, if the IX Corps JAG had been doing his job, Morefield would be assigned here as a prosecutor, where he could have been sent down to the divisions as necessary to prosecute the serious cases. That the JAG would be facing a smart-ass Harvard lawyer was the JAG’s own fault.
Furthermore, General Harrier believed that the accused was indeed entitled to the best possible defense. He privately hoped that Parker would beat the charge, although he realized that his chances were slim to do so. For one thing, he was obviously guilty as charged, and for another, the officers picked for the court were well aware the general believed he should be found guilty, pour encourager les autres.
“I thank you for your indulgence, sir,” Morefield said.
“Get on with it, Lieutenant,” the president said impatiently.
“Major Lowell,” Morefield said, “I notice that you are wearing the Expert Combat Infantry Badge with a star, signifying that it has been awarded to you twice.”
“Yes, sir,”
“You earned both awards as an officer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which means then, that on two different occasions, you have commanded troops in combat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“Here and in Greece,” Lowell said.
“Have you ever been a tank company commander?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were in fact, the commanding officer of Task Force Lowell, which effected link-up with the X Corps when Eighth Army broke out of the Pusan perimeter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“For which, I understand, you were given the Distinguished Service Cross?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I also understand that you have been decorated with the Distinguished Service Medal for your performance of duty as S-3 of the 73rd Heavy Tank Battalion during retrograde movement from the Yalu River in December 1950?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have, then, experience in combat in the attack and the retreat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I also understand that you were awarded the second highest medal for valor bestowed by the Greek government, the Order of St. George and St. Andrew, for your behavior above and beyond the call of duty in Greece. Is that, also, true?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you a tank commander, a commander of armored forces, in Greece?”
“No, sir.”
“What did you command in Greece?”
“I was an advisor to a Greek regiment.”
“But you were decorated for your performance as an infantry company commander, were you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did that come to be, Major?”
“I assumed command when the Greek officer was killed, sir.”
“And you led troops who were not even legally subject to your orders? So well that their King decorated you?”
“They gave me a medal,” Lowell said, obviously embarrassed.
“You could fairly be described, then, as a young officer whose experience of command in combat, as well as whose personal valor, has seen him promoted to a rank unusually high for someone of his age. Would that be a fair statement?”
“Objection!” the trial judge advocate said. “For what it’s worth, the prosecution will stipulate that Major Lowell is an outstanding, valorous young officer. But I don’t see what that has to do with this case.”
“Thank you,” Morefield said smoothly. “Major, I want to ask you a hypothetical question. On the field of battle, in the midst of ‘chaos, confusion, and cowardice,’ to use the phrase from the after-action reports, can you imagine a situation where the maintenance of good military order and discipline would require a summary execution?”
“Objection!” the trial judge advocate said.
“Yes, sir, I can,” Lowell replied.
“Objection sustained,” the president of the court said. “The court will not consider defense counsel’s last question, or the response to it, in its deliberations.”
“I have no further questions,” Morefield said softly. “Your witness.”
The trial judge advocate was surprised at having the witness turned over to him. He had expected Morefield to keep pursuing the notion that combat demanded extraordinary measures. But he stood up and walked over to Lowell.
“We know each other, Major, don’t we?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m a little confused, Major,” the trial judge advocate said. “I was under the impression you were aide-de-camp to General Harrier.”
“Not any longer, sir.”
“Oh?”
Lowell said nothing.
“Why aren’t you aide-de-camp to General Harrier any longer, Major?”
“I believe that I was found wanting,” Lowell said.
Harrier decided that line of questioning had backfired on the trial judge advocate. He saw quickly stifled smiles on the faces of several members of the court. The word was out: Lowell was in trouble for fucking the movie star. That was a sin, of course, but it was the sort of sin that paled in comparison with the recitation of Lowell’s military virtues that Morefield had brought to the court’s attention.
“‘A soldier that won’t fuck won’t fight!’: General Philip Sheridan,” thought Major General John Harrier.
“In other words, despite the picture Lieutenant Morefield has painted of you as a truly extraordinary officer, Major, you were relieved of your duties as aide-de-camp to the general because you were unable to perform them satisfactorily?”
“I don’t believe the general was concerned with the performance of my duties, sir,” Lowell said, dryly.
One of the officers on the court guffawed. There were chuckles. The trial judge advocate finally realized he was marching in the wrong direction, and changed the subject.
“I would like to ask you this, Major,” he said. “Would
you have this court believe that you, personally, would summarily execute an officer, or a soldier, simply because you felt he had not measured up to your standards on the battlefield?”
“That’s not what I said, Captain,” Lowell said. “We weren’t talking about my standards.”
“What exactly, then, did you say?”
“Please have the reporter read back my question, and Major Lowell’s response, from the record,” Morefield said, getting to his feet.
That was done.
“Now, to get back to my question, Major,” the trial judge advocate said. “Would you, or would you not, personally shoot someone, officer or enlisted man, out of hand?”
“I would do so reluctantly, sir,” Lowell said. “But to answer your question: If someone’s cowardice threatened my mission, or was threatening the lives of my men, yes, I would.”
“I put it to you, Major, that anyone who feels he may take the law into his own hands is unfit to wear the uniform of an officer of the United States Army.”
“Objection!” Morefield said.
“Sustained,” the president said. “That wasn’t a question, Colonel, that was a statement.”
“I have no further questions for this…officer,” the trial judge advocate said. He made officer sound like an obscenity.
“A couple of question on redirect,” Morefield said. “Major Lowell, you seem to have no question in your mind that you would, as the prosecution puts it, summarily execute someone under the circumstances described. Is this a philosophical position you have taken, or is it based on experience?”
“It’s based on experience, sir,” Lowell said.
“Go on.”
“I was once in a situation where I was the beneficiary of such a decision,” Lowell said. “An officer had been ordered to relieve my unit. He elected not to. His second in command was forced to shoot him and assume command.”
“Forced to shoot him?”
“Yes, sir. If he hadn’t, we would have been overrun and wiped out. More important, two missions would have failed. Ours on the hill, his to support us. He had to do it.”
“And what happened to the officer who was forced to take this action?”
“Nothing,” Lowell said. “He is presently serving.”
The Captains Page 34