by Bill Mesce
He knew the name. He was, after all, The Old Boss, Lord and Master, etc.
“I’m not sure what’s on over there, but all my usual snitches have locked the trap,” I said. “At their press office, they all have this grim look, as if the family’s found out Daddy’s been buggering the neighbor’s goats, but they won’t say a word. Not even lies.”
He let out a meditative “Hmph,” and sipped at his cup. “I have Brannagh on this, you know.”
Brannagh was getting a lot of the assignments I’d gotten in my two-legged days. “Irish toff. He’s never met a nauseatingly bright tie he didn’t like.”
“Quite.”
“But very good.”
“Thank you for saying. In Brannagh’s view, the Yanks’ attitude indicates some desperate damage control. Something quite dicky has happened and they’ve turned to slash-and-burn so’s not to leave a trace.”
“Sounds right.”
“In which case, so Brannagh says, one could play fox-and-geese with the Yanks till Doomsday without turning a lead. You can’t follow the clues, my son, unless they let you see the clues, and that doesn’t look likely at this point. It would seem, then, that there are more productive things my personnel could be doing with themselves, don’t you think? Such as those stories they’ve been assigned.”
“The snooker match.”
“Touché.” He took another sip from his teacup, studying the whirling liquid as he tilted the cup this way and that. Finally, he gave up an assenting grunt. “I’ll strike a bargain. You can play with this till close of business Friday. Then, old son, you go back to working for a living. And you’ll be handing me that snooker piece before you’re off, eh?”
He played the hard-arse, but I suppose he was turning into an old foof after all. His decision had little to do with serving the paper, or journalistic dedication, or any other practical or idealistic purpose. In fact, it was quite obvious he expected the story to go nowhere as, frankly, did I. For me, it was finding out if I’d left more than my leg in a bomb crater on the far side of the world. And Himself, bless him, was willing to let me.
*
Harry Voss pulled back the blackout curtains and pushed open the window. Big Ben was chiming five, and the morning breeze was cool and clean. Down in the Annex court, night still eddied so heavily he could barely make out Albert Markham and his Military Police escorts crossing the cobbles toward the gate.
Harry stretched and tried to soothe the tired muscles in his neck by rolling his head. His mouth carried the horrible taste of coffee and cigarettes mixed with food and liquor. The coffee, hastily brewed by the night orderlies, hadn’t done much to settle the dicey situation in his stomach. A whistle from the courtyard focused his groggy vision on an MP below, signaling him to close the blackout drapes.
He pulled the thick shrouds shut and turned back to the conference room. The long table was littered with empty coffee cups, overflowing ashtrays, and scribble-covered notepads. The air carried the blue haze of dead cigarettes, and the lacy tendrils of live ones. The staff sergeant stenographer was still trying to pack up his machine while Ryan was shoving him out the door.
When he wasn’t using his hands to push at the bewildered steno, Ryan was rubbing them together and bubbling like a winner of the Irish Sweepstakes. “I want a full transcript of that no later than 0900, you understand? Good!” he said, without waiting for a response, tearing the door open and shoving the sergeant clear. “And that’s your-eyes-only! The original and the steno record go straight to me, and photostats hand-delivered to Major Voss, General Halverson, and General DiGarre. Got it?” Again, without waiting for a response, “And keep your lip buttoned on this!” he commanded and slammed the door closed. He turned his beaming face toward the room.
Grassi, in a uniform that looked like — and probably was — something he’d fallen asleep in, sat slouched at the table, looking over his notes, and shaking his head with pleased amazement. Peter Ricks was there as well, eerily composed and cleanly pressed for the hour, his face marked with grim resignation and finality.
Harry considered those contented and/or resigned faces. Is it just me? he wondered. Am I the only one who feels it?
*
Joe Ryan had called for the stenographer, stirred the orderlies after a coffee urn, had Harry call for Ricks and Grassi, all the time keeping Markham and his MP escort waiting in the JAG building’s vestibule.
Harry had fretted about giving Markham enough time to change his mind.
“You haven’t played in this league before,” Ryan lectured Harry as he bustled about his preparations in the conference room. “Half the game is psychology. We let this joker cool his heels a while, give him time to sweat. When we finally let him in here, you want him to see that we’re ready for him. You want him to know he’s outgunned.”
To which end Ryan had clustered his troops in a tight knot at one end of the table, Ricks and Grassi to his left, Harry at his right, giving himself the head chair. Markham’s place was reserved at the far-off foot of the table, his only company to be the stenographer, whom Ryan had positioned to crowd the major.
But whatever intimidating effect all this was intended to have, Albert Markham entered the room under his MP escort no more impressed than a diner who has been informed that his table is now ready.
Other than the major’s composure, remarkable in a man facing a hangable offense, Harry found himself surprisingly underwhelmed by the man. Having gleaned bits and pieces of Markham’s daring aviation exploits, his list of — evidently — well-earned decorations, he’d expected a World War I-style knight-errant of the air: dashing good looks, a sparkling smile, trading white scarf, and so on.
But the Albert Quincy Markham Harry met in those predawn hours of Wednesday, 17 August, was impressively unimpressive. A bit short, the twenty-seven-year-old’s athletic days were long behind him, and his middle was a bit thick and a touch soft, his chin beginning to sag. His mousy hair was a short, efficient, unflattering bristle. Hours of sun glare through cockpit canopies had left squint lines round small, pale eyes, but the puffy face showed little else in the way of character.
He shuffled in between his guards, fingering his cap awkwardly. But at sight of Ryan and his cadre, he immediately straightened to attention and snapped out a crisp salute. For the moment, something in his bearing, in his — Harry searched for the word — conviction, showed him more matched to the uniform than any lantern-jawed, square-shouldered caricature on a recruiting poster.
Ryan tossed off an acknowledging salute, nodded Markham to the witness chair, and signaled the MP’s to wait outside, closing the doors behind them.
Markham stood by his designated chair, still at attention. Ryan fixed him with a practiced glare, the objective being to start the accused trembling in his shoes. Ryan theatrically cleared his throat and Harry knew they were in for some prepared, prosecutorial speech, but before the colonel could open his mouth, Markham spoke.
“I want to apologize for disturbing all of you at this time of night,” Markham said. His voice, marked by a Midwestern drone — was so soft that the four men at the other end of the table simultaneously leaned forward to hear better. “I know you don’t owe me this kind of consideration. You don’t owe me much of anything, I suppose, so I appreciate you meeting with me. I just figured the sooner we cleared this up the better for all of us.”
He spoke haltingly, uncomfortable with occasions for oratory.
Ryan gave a harrumphing agreement, obviously irritated that Markham had undercut his momentum, but, again, before he could launch into his opening remarks, Markham — in his usual, deferential way — cut him off.
“Sorry, sir, but is it OK if I have some of this coffee? Anybody else want a cup? Oh, you’ve got some?” To the steno: “How about you, Sarge? No? I don’t worry about it keeping me up. I haven’t slept a peaceful hour since this whole thing started.” His small mouth flicked in a sad, sheepish grin. “I guess that’s guilt, huh?”
�
��As you say, Major,” Ryan said, making a display of looking at his watch, “it is late.”
Harry thought Ryan sounded surprisingly tentative. Poor guy, Harry thought, studying his friend. The colonel looked almost ready to break into a run, so eager was he to get Markham’s confession down on paper before the flier could reconsider. And yet, Ryan wanted to be careful to do nothing to push Markham to that reconsideration.
“We should get started, huh?” Markham stood over the indicated seat, took a deep breath, then sat. He carefully arranged his cap to one side, his coffee to the other. “If I get the mumbles or you miss something,” he said to the steno, “you let me know, Sarge.”
The steno, surprised at being thought of as something other than hearing-room furniture, looked to the officers at the other end of the table, unsure of an appropriate response. “Um, sure, sir.”
“So,” the flier said with a tense clearing of his throat, “how do we do this?”
Ryan signaled the stenographer to begin recording, then made a rather stuffy introduction opening the proceedings and properly identifying those in attendance.
“Do I have to put my hand on a Bible or something like that?” Markham asked.
“Oh, hell,” Ryan said. “I forgot all about that. Anybody see a Bible around?”
“Should I go look for one?” Ricks asked, rising in his chair. Harry signaled him back into his chair with a shake of his head.
“It’s the Army,” Grassi said wryly. “I don’t think you’ll find many just laying around.”
“I don’t think we need all the frou-frous,” Ryan said to Markham, “do you, Major? You promise to tell the truth, don’t you?”
Markham slowly raised his right hand. “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” His right hand came down, the fingers tucked in except for his index digit, which made a small criss-cross on his chest. “Cross my heart — ” he paused, seemed inwardly amused at the phrase “ — and hope to die.” To Ryan: “That should do it, shouldn’t it, Colonel?” For a moment, Markham’s self-conscious awkwardness had faded.
Ryan looked to Harry, obviously impressed with this sudden demonstration of Markham’s coolness. “Now, Major Markham — ”
“Um, Colonel?” It was Ricks.
“Yes, Captain?”
“I hate to interrupt...”
Ryan, who hated even more to be interrupted, frowned at yet another delay in getting on with the business of the occasion. He nodded at Ricks to proceed.
“I’m wondering if Major Markham has been cautioned as to the evidentiary status of any statement he might make — ”
Ryan’s frown deepened into a sharp glower. He turned to Harry.
“It might be better for the record,” Harry said soothingly.
“For the record?”
Harry was offering more than a balm. It was typical Harry-esque diligence. He knew any irregularity or impropriety could turn the hoped-for case-settling confession into the basis for a future appeal.
Ryan took a breath. “All right, for the record. Major Markham: You are making a formal, sworn, and voluntary statement regarding charges of criminal action against you. This statement can be used against you as evidence in any future proceeding. Short and sweet, to make sure there’s no misunderstanding: Whatever you say right now is gospel. There’s not going to be any taking it back tomorrow.” Ryan looked back to Ricks as if to ask, “Is that good enough for you?” Ricks sheepishly dropped his eyes to his lap.
“I understand, sir,” Markham replied. “I appreciate you making the point clear to me.”
He is something, Harry thought, studying the aviator. Neither impatient nor reluctant. Uncomfortable, but not nervous, nor at some icy remove. Perfect balance. Harry looked round his end of the table — Ryan, champing at the bit and fretting at the same time; Grassi, smelling blood, even more rabid than Ryan; Ricks, dutifully observing the proprieties. We’re children next to him, he thought.
“Any other point of order I might have missed?” Ryan asked Ricks.
Red-faced as Ricks now was, he didn’t hesitate. “Um, well, yes...”
Ryan groaned.
“Oh, brother,” Grassi said.
Harry looked down the table at Markham. The flier was smiling, but there was a gallows-humor grimness to it. And something else.
“It was like him and me were outside it all,” Harry told me. “You could see it in his eyes, him saying, ‘Isn’t it a shame we have to go through all this song-and-dance?’”
“All right, Captain,” an annoyed Ryan continued. “What is it?”
“The major is entitled to legal counsel. He doesn’t have to do this without having counsel present — ”
Ryan’s eyes darted round the table as if looking for something to hurl at Ricks. Grassi’s fingers drummed impatiently on the table, freezing in mid-air when Ryan’s angry eyes fixed on him. Again, Ryan turned to Harry.
“Well, he is,” Harry said, almost smiling at Ryan’s growing ire.
“What’s a lawyer going to tell me?” Markham asked. “He’s going to tell me to keep my mouth shut. And I think we’d all just like to get this over with. I know I would. Besides, there’s enough lawyers in here already.” His face took on a sad softness as he looked at Ricks. “I’m sure if things don’t go quite according to the book, somebody’ll let out a holler. I mean — ” the grim smile again; that strange beyond-it-all connection to Harry again “ — how much more trouble could I possibly get into?” To Ryan: “Why don’t we just get down to this thing.”
Ryan seemed momentarily puzzled to find his strongest ally sitting at the opposite end of the table. He quickly composed himself. “Why not, Major? You’re being charged with the murder of Lieutenant O’Connell — ”
“Second Lieutenant Dennis R O’Connell,” Markham interjected. “It’s for the record, right? His whole name should be there.”
“Fine, Second Lieutenant Dennis F. O’Connell,” Ryan continued. “You are also charged with the attempted murder of two British civilians — Mr. and Mrs. Charles Gresham — both incidents arising from an operation you conducted on August fifteenth. You admit that — ”
“Um,” Markham said, holding up a finger to call a pause.
Ryan sighed. “Yes, Major?”
“I thought this was his case.” The upraised finger fell toward Harry. “I don’t know if it makes a difference. I just wondered...”
Ryan closed his eyes a moment to rein in his temper. He opened them and drew up a coolly polite smile. “Good point, Major Markham. Major Voss, why don’t you take over?”
“All right, Major,” Harry began, “we’ll just go through this thing ABC to make sure everything goes down as clear as possible, OK? Good. You were in command of the 351st on the date in question? On August fifteenth?”
“Acting command,” Markham corrected. “I was air exec for the 351st. When Colonel Adams was killed, command fell to me, but I was never formally given the group.”
“You were the one who organized and led the mission on the fifteenth?”
Markham frowned and his eyes dropped to the table-top. He nodded gravely.
“Your answers need to be verbal,” Ryan said, nodding at the steno.
“I know,” Markham said. “It’s just...” He took a deep breath, looked up and into Harry’s eyes. “On top of everything else, that’s another thing I should be held accountable for.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Harry said.
“That mission should never have gone off. I don’t know what word you want to use: ill-advised, misjudged, a mistake. The plain fact is, it was wrong.”
Ricks started to open his mouth but a glare from Ryan silenced him.
Markham hadn’t missed it. “I know what you’re going to say, Captain. ‘Hold up, talk to a lawyer’; all that. But what you don’t understand is all of this has been burning a hole in my gut since it started. I haven’t been able to — ” Markham cut himself off, shaking his head in self-adm
onishment. “I don’t want anybody’s sympathy here. I just want this out and done. The mission shouldn’t’ve happened, and it wasn’t General Halverson’s fault that it did. The way I got him to agree was what I guess you’d call ’emotional blackmail,’ the way I told him this was the only way to save his command. I’ve never been a book officer; I don’t know if that’s a crime. But if it is, it’s my crime. All I know is three men are dead that wouldn’t be if I hadn’t led them out that morning.”
He had spoken quietly, almost sheepishly, as if afraid that any aspect of the confession might reflect well upon him. He fell quiet for a long moment, staring back down at the tabletop. The four officers at the other end of the table looked confusedly at one another. Accused murderers taking on additional guilt was not a commonplace occurrence.
Harry led Markham through an account of the action on the fifteenth. Markham described the mission, in the main, much as Van Damm had imparted to Harry earlier with Angel Blue and Angel Red having reached Helsvagen without incident; O’Connell’s P-47 subsequently being struck by debris on the first attack by Angel Blue; O’Connell’s request for permission to abort the remainder of the mission, then exiting the target area at full speed without awaiting a response.
It was readily apparent to Markham that Angel Blue had effectively destroyed the depot on its first pass. That being the case, Markham’s priority became O’Connell’s vulnerability flying alone in a crippled aeroplane. Markham ordered Jacobs and McLagen to jettison their rockets, and, joined by Anderson, they all flew off to locate and cover O’Connell on the return trip. En route, they were attacked by German fighters.
At that point in his narrative, Markham paused. He drained his coffee, then held up the cup and nodded at the urn. “May I?...”
Harry nodded and Markham poured himself a fresh cup. “I trained Ray Jacobs,” Markham said, eyes downcast into his cup, his back to the table.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the steno said. “I didn’t get that.”
Markham turned, smiled apologetically to the steno. “Sorry, Sarge. I said I trained Ray Jacobs. And Andy McLagen...I remember when Andy got his silver bar...” Markham frowned in a way that made Harry wonder if the flier was trying to remember, or trying harder to forget. When he spoke, his voice sounded distant. “I didn’t even know we’d been bounced until I saw Ray Jacobs’s ship cross under me. Everything from the nose past the cockpit was burning. I could see him in there. Then I heard Andy on the radio calling them out, bandits, bandits on our six and high, coming out of the sun. I banked around, Andy was already up after them. But you don’t win an uphill fight like that, not against FW’s, not that many of them. There were three or four all over him. I didn’t see him go down. But...” Then, to himself, “Oh, Andy...” Markham spent a moment on the reverie, only slowly reawakening to the presence of the other men in the room. Again, the apologetic smile that was becoming more familiar to Harry, and just as predictable. “I’m sorry, gentlemen.”