by Bill Mesce
In point of fact, it was not an elaborate carte being offered; a simple offering of beef and vegetable stew, but it was, admittedly, done to a tasty turn, abetted with fresh bread; nearly haute cuisine compared to the grisly repast Harry and Ricks had prepared for us several days earlier.
“I don’t know where you dug that cook up,” Thom continued, “but considerin’ what we ate in Wiltz, I can’t believe General Cota was all that tickled ‘bout givin’ that fella up!”
Courie grinned slyly. “Only the supplies are courtesy of the general. The cook…” He demurred, enjoying his air of mystery.
“Didn’t you say some connection of yours down at Versailles?” Ryan asked.
“Yes,” said Courie. “A favor.”
“The captain is very good at making friends all over the ETO,” Ryan said, a trace of annoyance not quite completely camouflaged in his tone. “I’m always impressed with how easily the captain seems to make friends…outside the Judge Advocate’s.”
“I can always send the cook back, Colonel,” Courie retorted in feigned good nature. “You said weren’t with a firm, isn’t that right, Colonel Voss?
“Not with a firm. Just me. Old–fashioned one–man general practice.”
“I admire that. I really do. Like I said, a dying breed, at least in the cities where the serious casework goes on. Did you ever handle any criminal actions in those days?”
Another shrug from Harry. “Somebody got a little too ‘enthused’ at the Feast of San Gennaro, had a little too much wine, said the wrong thing, a punch got thrown…”
“That’s the kind of business that filled my day when I was a rookie ADA. Low man on the totem pole. You know how that is, Alth.” A mentor’s well–meaning jibe.
“Yessir,” Alth responded with dutiful good humor.
“You should know that Colonel Voss had a hell of a track record with the Judge Advocate’s office,” Ryan offered.
“That must have been quite a step up for you,” Courie said, “from your practice to JAG.”
“I never looked at it that way.”
“I wasn’t aware that you’d tackled many cases, well, any as serious as this,” Courie probed. “I mean when you were with the Judge Advocate.”
“Not many,” Harry agreed. “Like you said: how often do they come by?”
Courie pushed his plate away, settled into his chair. There seemed to be a wee smile on that small mouth; the pleasure of the hunt. “I heard of one you were on. Last year; that August. Something about a fighter pilot.”
“Didn’t come to anything,” Harry said, still busying himself with his food.
“There’s quite a few personnel on Colonel Ryan’s staff that remember you from those days.”
“Fondly, I hope.”
“Respectfully. And with a certain curiosity about why you left after that case.”
“Colonel Voss there is married to one of the finest ladies you’ll know,” Ryan jumped in, “and he’s got two little boys like something out of an Andy Hardy movie. He was eager to get back to them. If I was as lucky as he is on the home front, I’d be chomping at the bit for any chance to go home.”
“Is that what it was, Colonel?” Courie pressed. “Missed the family, did you?”
“Do you have a family, Captain Courie?” It was la comtesse. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, refolded it and placed it by her plate; finished. “Wife? Children?”
Courie had been taken aback, having forgotten – so it seemed – the presence of the silent woman. “I have a wife, Countess, and three daughters.”
“And you, Lieutenant?”
“I have a girlfriend, Ma’am,” Alth said.
“You are missing her?”
“We’re going to get married when I get back.”
“Then why is it to puzzle you this man would go home?”
Now Courie turned back to Harry with that hungry smile again. “Because he came back.”
“The vagaries of war, Captain,” I put in.
“Is that what it was, Colonel Voss?” Courie asked. “The vagaries of war?”
“Like he said,” Harry replied, never looking up from his plate. “Those vagaries’ll get you every time.”
Then the mess orderlies were clearing the table and bringing out servings of a freshly–baked apple pie and cups of respectable coffee.
“Mr. Owen, I want to thank you for helping out the defense,” Courie said. “I know poor Corporal Thom must have been feeling a little overwhelmed. I think we’ve all had the same feeling on our first major felony case! Especially being on such a short calendar. It’s a shame Lieutenant Sisto waited so long to call on you. Of course now I look at you all lined up on that side of the table and I’m feeling a bit outgunned!”
“Somehow I have the feeling you’re up to the challenge, Captain,” I said.
He bowed at the compliment.
With an attention–getting ahem and harrumph, Ryan announced, “Well, I hate to spoil an enjoyable evening with business, but as long as we’re all here,” at which point la comtesse stood. “Oh, you don’t have to leave, Countess.”
“Do I have to stay?”
Ryan smiled, a connoisseur’s appreciation of a well–turned barb. “Of course, not, Madame.”
She nodded a good evening to the table company. Officers and gentlemen all, we stood and bowed our own good evenings.
“Bon soir, Comtesse.”
For the first time, the ghost of a pleased smile from her. She turned to me: “Bon soir, Monsieur. Demain.”
“I’ve heard some of the troops grumble,” Courie said after she’d left the room. “A lot of them don’t see the difference between a Belgian and a German. Common blood, I think. A lot of them do speak German, don’t they? Some of the troops say maybe a few of the Belgians have more sympathy with the krauts than with us. That’s what they say.” This last to cover himself lest his opinion be judged negatively.
“I believe the countess is of French descent, Captain,” I said. “And I don’t recall that the Belgians invited the Germans in.”
“I’m just repeating what they say, Mr. Owen.”
“Maybe she’s just unhappy because she didn’t invite us, either.” It was the first time I could recall Peter Ricks saying anything that evening.
“You said something about business, Colonel Ryan?” Harry asked.
“The jury pool and the witnesses are being transported in on the sixth – that’s less than a week away – jury selection is on the seventh, and we should have this circus up and running on the eighth. While I appreciate Captain Courie’s reasons for selecting this – “ eyes drolly wandering about the vaulted ceiling “ – ‘establishment’ for the proceeding, putting the accused, counsel, witnesses and jury under one roof is asking for trouble. Gentlemen, if a mistrial comes out of this, it’s going to be because of a procedural error; not because of a stupid fuck–up. So, when our ‘guests’ arrive, this’ll be the drill:
“The jury pool – and afterwards, the finalized panel – will be sequestered in rooms on the top floor of the main building, and the witnesses will have rooms over in the east wing to keep some distance between them. It means having to move some of those Signal Corps bozos around but they could use a little inconvenience – it’ll remind them they’re in the Army; not at summer camp. Both areas will be kept secure by the MPs. I’ll work up a schedule of separate mess calls for evening chow; breakfast and lunch they’ll get in their quarters.”
“That’s going to be a little rough on them, isn’t it, Colonel?” Courie said. “They’re not going to be much better off than Sisto.”
“I’ll have some of the bigger rooms set up as separate recreation areas, and each group will have assigned outdoor areas as well for those with a hearty constitution and an affinity for cold weather fun.
“Unfortunately, three different mess calls gets a little unwieldy so all of you gents will be getting all of your meals in your rooms.”
“Ahh, room servi
ce!” Ricks cracked. “Can I get a pedicure sent up with breakfast, Colonel?”
“Why not? I’m sure one of these MPs would be happy to oblige for a couple of smokes. There will be no socializing with the jurors or the witnesses. If you need to interview a witness, I want notification of the interview and a record kept of the meeting. No informal chats. Everybody understand?” A pause for the head nods and “Yessir”‘s.
“It’s going to be a little crowded around here in a couple of days,” Ryan continued. “You see a juror or a witness coming down the hall, run away. If you’re not sure they’re a juror or a witness, run away. If there’s no place to run, observe proper military protocol. You salute, you say, ‘Hullo,’ but anything beyond that and I swear to God I’ll declare a mistrial and the guilty party will have their balls handed to them on one of these very nice plates.”
Ryan, always master of the dramatic effect, waited just the right amount of time to let it all sink in, before asking, “Anybody else have anything?”
“Just a mention, really,” Courie said. “Colonel Voss, if you haven’t discussed it with your client yet, at some time you might want to consider a plea. My practice is to deal with that as early as possible. The closer we get to the trial date, the less likely I’m inclined to negotiate.”
“You mean,” Ricks said, “the more prepared we are to defend the case, the less likely you are to – ”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Captain,” Harry interjected.
“Well, the lieutenant and I have a little work to do,” Courie said, rising. Alth, still working on his apple pie, dropped his fork and stood as well. “There’s a lovely bottle of schnapps I found in Wiltz. I’ll have it brought out. Please feel free. Colonel Voss, if there’s anything we can do to help – ”
“Stationary. A good clerk typist. Stenographer. Transcriptionist. A typewriter.”
“I’ll have Alth see to the stationary,” with a hollow graciousness. “I’m afraid we only thought to bring the one typist –”
“And the one typewriter?” Harry inquired, all open–faced innocence.
“He’s in the middle of some documentation for me. As soon as I can, I’ll make him available.”
“I appreciate that, Captain, thank you.”
Polite nods and bows, then Courie exited with Alth in tow.
Ryan watched him go with a restrained frown, Ricks and Andy Thom with one less restrained, while an oblivious Harry continued to apply himself – much to my curiosity – solely to his wedge of apple pie.
After a long moment, Andy Thom sighed and pronounced, “I don’t want to sound too disrespectful of a superior officer…but if that guy dished out any more horseshit we’d a needed snorkels.”
*
As we had that afternoon after luncheon, following dinner, we all – sans Ryan, naturally – retired to Dominick Sisto’s tower room for Harry to continue debriefing Thom, with Ricks and I there to offer to keep an ear for any salient detail the corporal might forget. Though one still sensed the strain in the corporal, it was less pronounced than it had been back in Wiltz. Perhaps it was simply a matter of growing inured to the material through repetition. Or that it was the benefit of rehashing those tragic events without having to meet the tortured gaze of one of his mates.
In any case, he synopsized his interviews in good order while Harry, an end table pulled up in front of him as an inadequate desk, scribbled hastily away in his foolscap pad. The deck of his irritating cards sat at his elbow, and another deck of blank ones on the table. Occasionally, he would stop his scribbling long enough to notate a new card and add it to the deck; all very careful, very detailed, very Harry–like thoroughness. The matter of the unidentified radio operator again resurfaced, Sisto had nothing to offer, and the evening’s session ended with – as I think we had all expected – the decision to bundle Andy Thom off to Wiltz the following morning.
My attention was on Dominick Sisto. For some of the time he sat in our circle, but wherever his mind was, it was not on Andy Thom’s disquisition, nor any of the clarifying and amplifying questions Harry asked. More often than not he idly walked the small, round room, sometimes hovering by one of the narrow windows. I don’t think he could have been any more uninvolved had none of us been there.
The day’s work done, we all returned to our respective quarters. I waited what I considered a judicious time, then made my way back to the castle wall where I’d encountered Sisto several nights earlier. The rain had ceased a few hours earlier, but the sky was still heavily mottled with clouds.
“Watch your step,” came a caution from the gloom. “We almost busted our arses comin’ up here.”
The concern was well–warranted. Even in the little night light, I could see the glitter of filigrees of ice where the rain had trickled down the stone battlement and frozen, and the still orbs of iced–over puddles on the walk. I trod carefully, my gloved hand moving from one merlon to the next until I came upon Sisto and his MP escort.
“I don’t think she’s comin’ out tonight, Mr. O,” the lieutenant said, and I could hear the impish delight in his voice. “Too much ice.”
“I don’t know what you – ”
“Oh, you kid!” and there came a jocular punch in the shoulder.
I was glad for the dark; it was the second time that day I could feel myself redden. “I don’t know why everybody in this damned place feels compelled to – to – ”
“Uh–huh!” and he chuckled, concluding the subject. “Hey, how about Andy? He did pretty good, didn’t he? I mean I don’t know how to judge that stuff, but it sounded like he did a pretty good job.”
“Quite.”
“He’s a swell kid.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say so, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“I wasn’t sure you heard much of what was said down there today.”
Another chuckle. “Mr. O, what was he gonna say I didn’t already know? You forget? I was there!”
I have to admit, the obviousness of it made me feel a bit silly.
Then, as we would over a number of the coming nights, we talked. Or more properly he talked. He allowed me to contribute enough for politeness’ sake, but the bulk of the conversation was his. For him, I think it needed to be.
It was almost wholly about – as Harry had told me – the “old days,” those days growing up in the North Ward of Newark. I heard about playing stickball in the streets, opening fire hydrants to play in their cooling streams in the summer. I learned of the neighborhood characters, like Philip Meyer, the Jewish shopkeep whose roof abutted Sisto’s family’s tenement apartment, and through whose skylight a young Dominick had crashed while walking the shop’s roof in relief of a summer’s night heat. There was Apple Mary, the fruiterer whose shop was not much further and who was known for the candy–covered apples she displayed on a stand on the walk. “I can taste those damn apples right now!” Sisto proclaimed.
But there was no story, no tale, no remembrance of anything past beyond those days. No part of the conversation – or the ones that would follow – would extend beyond the day in the winter of 1942 when he and the other young men who were the first class of enlistees from the neighborhood marched down to Newark’s Pennsylvania Station garbed in their one suit of proper clothes, carrying their cheap, shabby suitcases, to board the train for Ft. Dix and basic training. They were escorted by a crowd of family and friends and a small brass band from one of the neighborhood’s social clubs which stood on the platform and played a mix of mournful Italian melodies and Souza marches.
But after that day…nothing. None of the typical barracks room memories, the stories of comical mates, oppressive drill sergeants, the awe at the scope of the world the first time one traveled past the boundaries of home. One would have though Dominick Sisto had stepped off that train that same 1942 day directly into his chamber in the Chateau D’Audran two years later.
He was not a man trapped in his past, nor hiding in it. He relived it over and
over – the memories, the sounds, the sense of it – in particular detail, like a man for whom the future did not exist, the future beginning that first day at Ft. Dix. The future was a dream – a nightmare – and all that was real were those days on the streets of Newark, so few of them that the only way to make a life of them was to live them again and again.
It grew late and the MP made noises it was time for the evening to conclude.
Only then, the first acknowledgement of what had been transpiring these last few days. “I feel bad about Signor Roosk. He’s been working his brains out. I don’t know how… And you too, Mr. O! All of you guys. I just…” His gratitude fell beyond his ability to articulate it.
I nodded; he didn’t need to say more. “I just wish we had more time. Lieutenant, I must ask! Why in God’s name did you wait so long to bring Harry in?”
There was a long pause and I wish there had been enough light for me to see his face. “Hell, Mr. O, if it had been up to me, I wouldn’t’ve brought him in at all!” Even in the dark I think he could sense my consternation. “I told you before, Mr. O; the signor is like family to me. I didn’t want to drag him into this. I’m embarrassed as hell he even knows about this! I haven’t even told my mom!”
Now, he could see me shaking my puzzled head.
“I wasn’t going to call him in. The Irishman – ”
“Colonel Ryan?”
“He pushed me to do it. He told me poor Andy was in way over his head, wasn’t really fair to the kid to throw something this heavy on him, and then he said I didn’t want my people back home finding out about this when it shows up in the papers – … You ok, Mr. O? Something wrong?”
I was still shaking my addled head. “Hm? Oh, no, it’s just that, naturally I’d assumed – . Well, no matter, eh?”
It’s never simple. The mantra of my profession. It should be, but it never is.