Civilian Slaughter tz-8

by James Rouch

  Men of the combat company kept them supplied with water from the tanker, and soap, sheets and body bags from the stores truck parked beside it.

  The elderly officer of the West German army’s service corps who had arrived with them, had already volunteered himself and his drivers to join in any action Revell might take.

  That accounted for four of the six couriers he had sent out. It would be midday tomorrow, Friday, before he would know if the other two had been as successful. If they hadn’t been, then all this would have been for nothing.

  Well, not quite for nothing. He stood to the side and observed as the nurses finished washing dirt and blood from yet another young victim. It was a girl, very thin, and as white as the neatly folded sheet beside her. Hair brushed back from her face, she looked no more than eight or nine. Her arms and legs-flopped about like those of a disjointed rag doll when she was lifted for the wrapping to pass under her emaciated body.

  Very gently the crisp material was enfolded about her, after a generous dusting with a sickly sweet smelling disinfectant powder. Then again she was lifted and placed into a body bag. She made a pitifully small load within it.

  “A terrible business, Major. A truly terrible business.” The middle-aged chaplain who had come out with the nurses had been constantly trotting back and forth between the scene of preparation and the graves. He looked and sounded exhausted, both mentally and physically, but it was as though he couldn’t stop.

  “Some of the men have said they would like to speak with me. Under no circumstances I wonder if that would be in order.”

  “I have never stopped my men from attending a church parade if they want, even though we don’t hold them ourselves. Certainly they can talk to you.”

  “You misunderstand, Major. I have spoken to several of your men and to a number of the Dutch pioneers already. No, I have been approached by one of the Russians…”

  “Grigori, by any chance?”

  “Yes, that was his name. When they have finished their work, they would like a service. I can well understand that feeling is running high, but they are not the men who… who did this terrible crime.”

  There was a horrendous scream, or the start of one, from the direction of the improvised graveyard. Revell had hardly started toward it when Hyde approached.

  “That was one of the Russians. The silly bastard got a mouth full of dirt and spat it out into one of the graves. Old William swung a shovel at him.”

  “How bad is he?”

  Hyde glanced at the chaplain. “They don’t come any worse. It took his head clean off.”

  NINETEEN

  Revell had only been studying the electronic intelligence data for a few minutes when the Military Police arrived.

  “There’s a general who would like to see you, Major. And I think he’ll be wanting those as well.”

  “Help yourself.” Revell made no further comment as the print-outs, photographs and typed sheets were gathered together.

  “Am I under arrest.”

  Both the MPs were sergeants, and both were big, seeming to fill the interior of the tent. It was the older of the two, the one with several medal ribbons who spoke again.

  “Those aren’t our orders, Major, but the general gave us his instructions in person. You could say he was not happy. I haven’t ever been spoken to by a general before. If they all get as mad as he was, I’m content for it to never happen again.” He shuffled the papers together. “Are there any copies of these?”

  “Here? No.”

  The MPs exchanged looks. Again it was the veteran who spoke. “I would like to be able to take the word of an officer, Major. But if I go back and tell the general I accepted that then he is quite likely to nail my balls to my kneecaps. Well have a look around.”

  The search of the tent and its sparse furnishings took only a moment, but it was done thoroughly. Outside a third MP waited by a highly polished Hummer. He had his hand close to his holster and had unbuttoned the covering flap.

  As Revell was escorted to the waiting transport a growing crowd of his men encircled it and a threatening rumble of noise came from them.

  “Tell your men to keep back, Major. We’re just doing our job.” It was obvious the MPs were nervous. Tall and wide as they were, Dooley was more than their match when he planted himself in their path. He fixed them with a glare that was almost hypnotic in its intensity.

  “Move over, Dooley. That’s an order.” For a second Revell thought he was going to disobey, but begrudgingly he stepped back among the throng.

  During the brief delay the young MP had been looking through the photographs, concentrating on one that showed a long line of children’s bodies.

  “Have you guys been killing babies?”

  The fist that hit him in the side of the face came from the second rank of the crowd, but for all the distance it had to travel, it came with crushing force.

  A bone cracked loudly and following the impact of the blow the MP went down, bouncing with a heavy thud off the hood of the Hummer. He slid to the ground, eyes rolling, jaw hanging limp. Blood spurted from the back of his throat.

  “That’s enough.” Revell had to shout.

  Both standing MPs had their pistols out, with safety catches off. In reply to that action came the distinctive click of a round being chambered in an M16. The circle about the group tightened.

  “It’s OK. I’ll be back. I’ll be back soon.” Revell had to think fast to do something to defuse the situation.

  Before he could say more he was bundled into the back of the Hummer. He had to slide across when the semi-conscious MP was shoved in beside him.

  “They broke my buddy’s jaw.”

  The big sergeant climbed into the driver’s seat. He sent the vehicle surging forward. Its fenders brushed those slowest to get out of the way.

  “You ain’t the only one who’ll be coming back, Major. Difference is, I won’t be on my own.”

  “What the hell are you playing at out there. Don’t orders mean anything to you?” Revell held his tongue. The general had worked himself into a fine old lather and wasn’t about to allow interruptions.

  “I’ll bet you’ve got some smart ass explanation about how you thought the order didn’t cover a second mass grave. Well I’m telling you, you can be as big a smart ass as you fancy, you’re not talking your way out of this one.”

  Stalking back and forth across the room, the general opened his mouth to speak several times, but couldn’t find the words. Finally he turned to Colonel Lippincott.

  “He’s your damned subordinate. Don’t you have any control over your men? Can’t you impose any discipline? Do you have any idea who I’ve had on the phone in the last hour? I’ll tell you. Two damned politicians and a lieutenant general from the staff at Army Headquarters. He has the army commander’s ear. God only knows what sort of influence the other two can swing.”

  “I’ve spoken to the major.” Lippincott took advantage of a pause to jump in. “He does feel that the discovery of the second mass burial changes the situation. Using his own discretion he thought it wise to make a record.”

  Revell experienced quiet amazement. It was the first time, ever, that he had heard Ol’ Foul Mouth get through a sentence without injecting an obscenity.

  “And what damned good did he think that would do?” Grabbing a handful of the reports and photographs, the general waved them. “Have you seen these?”

  “I have examined them, General. I can understand how Major Revell…”

  “You understand, horseshit.”

  Lippincott expanded visibly as he changed colour. “Would the general like to elaborate.”

  Now pacing the floor behind his desk, the general appeared to have already forgotten what he’d said in anger. He was so worked up that his breath was coming in snorts. His fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly. He stopped behind his chair, put his hands on the back of it and looked hard at them.

  “When I finish here I’ve got to go to a meet
ing to discuss this whole damned messy business. Among other things they’ll want to know how a lowly major could be able to put together an intelligence file inches thick inside of twelve hours. And they’re especially going to want to find out how he commandeered those resources, after he’d been told to keep his damned nose out of the matter.”

  Picking up a battered briefcase, the general began to cram the assorted documents into it. “To keep the lid on this we’ve had to round up all your fellow conspirators. If we hadn’t moved fast when we found what was going on, by now every cook and bottle washer in the Zone would be in on it. You can’t begin to imagine how much time and effort it has taken.” With an effort the general brought his temper under control.

  “You think you’ve been smart, Major. I’ll bet you’ve a duplicate set tucked away somewhere. Well, I’m not about to be blackmailed. I swear to you that the best you can hope for from now on is to remain a major until you’re the oldest one in any army in the Zone. Get out.”

  Revell saluted, and went to reach for the door. He was pulled up by another outburst.

  “If the games you’ve been playing make half the trouble for me that I’m expecting, then I’ll make sure you go in the shit with me. And you know what? When we’re both buried in it, I’ll be standing on your head.”

  The outer room was spartanly furnished, with a selection of odd chairs. It looked like a doctor’s waiting room belonging to a poor practice in a poorer area. Once it must have been the principal bedroom of the big old house that was the HQ. Fancy plasterwork decorated the ceiling, and the threadbare carpet had once been a good one.

  There was one other person in there, a captain who looked much too old for his rank, and ill at ease in his crumpled uniform. Revell didn’t recognize the insignia he wore.

  “Seems to be a lot of shouting in there. But then I’ve found there’s a lot of that in the army. My name’s Porter. I suppose I should say ‘captain’ first, but I can’t get used to it.”

  At first glance Revell had summed the officer up as a civilian in uniform. He didn’t feel much like making small talk, but anything was better than having to listen to the muted, unintelligible bellowing coming from next door.

  “Revell. Not sure what rank I should say. Not sure what it’ll be tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I see. All that racket is aimed directly, or presently indirectly, at you. What have you done, anything absolutely outrageous?”

  “What branch are you with? I don’t recognize the badge.”

  “Hardly surprising. I shouldn’t think there are many of us. I’m with the historical section of the War Department. We are supposed to trot about the battlefields recording events for posterity. Only I shouldn’t be doing it. That’s why I was hoping to see the general.”

  “What should you be doing?” The scruffy officer amused Revell, and he could do with light relief. Never before had he ever seen a soldier so obviously lacking any shadow of a martial spirit.

  “Actually, until I was drafted,” Porter winced as another indistinct blast of noise came through the wall, “I was a school teacher.”

  “History?”

  “Among everything else, certainly, but I’m no historian. And I can’t go trekking across battlefields interviewing marines and soldiers. I don’t know where to start. Apart from anything else, I’m too old. It’s a task that needs a younger, fitter man. Now if I had been sent out here as a reporter…”

  A look of dreamy bliss came over the captain’s placid features. “That’s what I always wanted to be. I could see myself, my own desk at the Tribune or the Post, getting all the scoops. Actually I do manage a little in that way. I send in local stories to our county paper. Some get into print. Rewritten usually of course, but now and again I get a by-line.”

  In the adjoining room the shouting appeared to have reached and then passed the crisis point. The door burst open and the general, red in the face, stamped past Revell and the captain without giving either a glance. Half rising from his seat, Porter couldn’t summon the courage to call after him, and slumped back down.

  “Major Revell!”

  Anticipating the colonel’s summons, Revell had already started for the office. He turned back to Porter. The man seemed entirely crushed, drained. “Keep trying. Today is just a bad day. Perhaps you’ll get in the press corps yet.”

  “I shan’t hold my breath. I would like to think it could happen, but do you know, I truly believe that if a scoop… if a scoop sat in the same room, I wouldn’t recognize it.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Walking into the office, Revell pulled the door shut behind him, and faced the colonel.

  TWENTY

  “Did you keep a duplicate set?”

  Lippincott had plunked himself in the general’s swivel chair. Now he helped himself to a substantial pinch of the general’s pipe tobacco. He sniffed the mixture, grunted disparagingly and put it back in its stained leather pouch.

  He idly opened each desk drawer in turn as he spoke. “Or is there more than one lot of copies?”

  “There is another complete record, including an expertly shot three hour video.”

  “Clever bastard, aren’t you. I suppose if we send the MPs back they won’t find anything.”

  “Can’t be sure, I would think it highly unlikely.” In a sliding tray immediately below the rear of the desk top, Lippincott found a tray of assorted pencil stubs.

  “Look at this. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he looks after his pencils. Not a decent point on any of them. Very sloppy.”

  Rummaging at the back of the tray Lippincott finally found a fresh pencil. “Good, 2H. I find HB’s have no flavour.”

  “So what happens now. Do I go back to my combat company?”

  “Not so fast, Major. At this precise moment you are getting a severe reprimand.” Looking around, Lippincott finally spat a sliver of gold letter embossed green paint into a waste-paper basket. “Consider yourself fucking lucky. Only one thing preventing them from putting you under close arrest, prior to a full court martial and the inevitable kicking of your ass all the way to the stockade.”

  “The copies?”

  “No, not your shitty copies. Having those is what nearly sank you for good. That was too tricky for the general to stomach. Too damned clever by half. What saved your miserable bacon was a memo from the eggheads in public relations.”

  “They’ve never done anything helpful or useful before. Who woke them up, somebody offering free drinks?”

  “Don’t despise them, Major. It’s those drunken lard asses who pulled you out of the fire. Almost out, that is. They have to think ahead, anticipate, you might say. Their thinking is that, despite all our efforts, this business might just, eventually, make the papers. We’re fighting tooth and nail to put a block on that, but… Well, how’s it going to look if the hero who uncovered the story has been busted and is doing ten.”

  Sick of the whole business, with its double talk and the double standards that went with it, Revell simply wanted to get back to his company. After all this, the Zone appeared almost an attractive alternative.

  “So everything goes back to normal. Like nothing has happened.”

  “That’s it, business as usual.” Pulling a face, Lippincott threw the half-eaten pencil into the basket. “Tastes like chipboard. Can’t even requisition himself decent pencils. Yeah, as long as we can keep the lid on the story, there’s no harm done.”

  “Except to a couple of thousand West German civvies and their kids. The lid was put on them all right.”

  “Major, you can be a real tit. You think you’re the only one with feelings. I feel for them, even me, Ol’ Foul Mouth. In private the general does as well. He’s as mad about it as you and me. Maybe more, because he never gets out on the ground, knows he’ll never be able to throttle the fuckers with his bare hands as he’d like to. He has to be part of the cover-up operation, so he takes it out on us. Tough for us, but perfectly natural, you have to agree.”

  “
So the KGB get away with another one. Only this time we help them get away with it.”

  “Hand me my attaché case will you?” Lippincott accepted it, and delved inside. From it he extracted a large thermos flask, a couple of Mars bars and a large bundle of pencils. He piled them all on the desk top. “Here it is.”

  Pulling out a thick file, he tossed it to Revell. “It’s not what you would call light reading. Not in any sense of the word.”

  Opening it, Revell read the title page to himself. “This a complete intelligence summary on the 717th. Why give me it, rubbing salt in the wounds?”

  “Hardly, and you take good care of that, soon as you’ve finished reading it in fact.” Pushing the items back into the case, Lippincott kept the pencils until last, popping two into his pocket.

  “That was put together for me by a friendly, if rather matronly type, in records. She has the hots for me. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not just you glamorous types who can get your end away. You’ll be grateful for the likes of her if you get turned into a one-armed wonder like me.” Lippincott had seen Revell’s quiet smile. “Just don’t you go getting sloppy when you dispose of that. It wouldn’t be so difficult to trace. The old photocopier in the filing room produces blemishes as distinctive as any fingerprint.”

  “So why are you taking the risk.” While he listened Revell couldn’t resist flicking over the pages in his lap. From that brief survey it appeared a mine of information.

  “Because I get this gut feeling when you’re up to something. I reckon, regardless of the consequences, you and your crazy outfit are going to hit the 717th. For you to stand half a chance of pulling it off, cleanly, you need all the assistance you can get. This is the best I can do, toward avoiding being pulled down with you if it all goes wrong. Can you use it?”

  “There’s certainly good stuff in here. Strengths, equipment scales; even profiles on their CO and his officers.”

  “You are going to raid them, aren’t you?” Until that precise moment, Revell had not made up his mind. He looked directly at the colonel. “Yes.” There was nothing to be gained by a denial.