Casualties of War: The Advocate Trilgy

by Bill Mesce

  Billy Two Trees came back to where Frizzell was standing by the door. “Rat.”

  Frizzell turned back to watch the G–2 colonel walk slowly about the meadow, his eyes on the ground. He’d been doing this for some minutes, then, as if he’d reached some conclusion, stood erect, looked at the forest beyond the clearing for a long moment, then started back toward the pillbox.

  He reached the pillbox about the same time Frizzell’s four men had returned to report the other two emplacements were also empty and they saw no sign of Germans beyond.

  “So, Colonel, is that it?” Frizzell asked the G–2 man. “You done sight–seein’?”

  The G–2 man was walking slowly about the pillbox, a torch in his hand as he studied the odds and ends he found on the floor: empty packets of German cigarettes, empty ration tins, a mud–spattered copy of a ten–day–old German newspaper. “When was the last time you saw troops up here?”

  “Our last recon was two days ago.”

  “Sharp salutes,” Billy Two Trees said. “Guards on post. Stand at attention like on the parade ground at home.”

  “So they salute good,” Goldstone remarked. “Wazzat mean?”

  “It means they were probably fresh troops,” the G–2 man said. Something had caught his eye. He knelt down, picked a piece of letter–sized paper from the floor, brought it over to the door to study it by the weak daylight.

  “Got somethin’?” Frizzell asked.

  The G–2 man handed it over. While Frizzell uselessly looked over the block of German text, the colonel extracted a cellophane–wrapped cigar from inside his windcheater, bit the tip off, then lit it. Frizzell’s nose wrinkled as the blue tendrils of smoke mixed with the vapor of the colonel’s breath. “Jesus, Colonel, what kinda stinkweed you got in that thing?”

  The G–2 colonel grinned. “It’s an acquired taste.” He nodded out at the open field. “Division G–2 in Wiltz says you reported hearing a lot of tracked vehicles on this side of the Our.”

  “That’s what they said? ‘Tracked vehicles?’ I told ‘em tanks, Colonel, ‘n’ lots of ‘em.”

  “I guess they didn’t believe you.”

  “Well fuck them then! I know what tanks sounds like.” Frizzell handed the paper back. “What’s this?”

  The G–2 man folded the paper neatly and tucked it safely inside his windcheater. “I don’t think my little phrasebook is gonna crack it, but it looks like some kind of order to the troops. From von Rundstedt. You were right, Sarge,” and he nodded out at the field. “They weren’t half–tracks. You can see the tread marks. Tanks. At least some of ‘em were heavies.”

  “Bring fresh troops in ‘n’ move ‘em out again,” Billy Two Trees mused. “Don’t make sense.”

  The G–2 man nodded in agreement. “Unless they’re passing through. But from where to where? I don’t like it. There’s a kraut outfit backed by armor wandering around on the loose out there,” and he nodded at the trees across the field.

  “Know what I don’t like?” Frizzell put in. “I don’t like there’s a kraut outfit backed by armor wanderin’ around here somewheres ‘n’ we’re on the wrong fuckin’ side o’ the fuckin’ river.”

  “Got a point,” the G–2 man grinned. He stubbed his cigar out on the sole of his boot, put the remainder back inside his windcheater. “Take us home, Sarge.”

  As they stood by the door waiting for Goldstone to assume his position at point, the G–2 man pointed at Frizzell’s face. “You oughta see somebody about that,” he said.

  Frizzell’s hand went reflexively to his twitching eye. “I did.”

  “Doc says he’s gotta relax more,” Billy Two Trees deadpanned.

  They all grinned at that, and then they went back out into the rain.

  PART II: Loshon Hora

  CHAPTER SIX: Sanhedrin

  LEONARD COURIE TOOK HIS MOMENT. He stood at his table, straightened the hem of his jacket, moved to the center of the well of the make–shift courtroom. He stood with his feet slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back, and then he bowed his head, as if to gather his thoughts. In the environment of the chapel, one might have thought he was taking a moment of prayer before beginning.

  A log popped amidst the crackling in the fireplace. The stained glass of the chapel windows carried the fluttering shadows of the falling snow, grown heavy since the previous night.

  “Sirs.” His head rose. “This is both a simple case…and a grave one.

  “Simple, because the facts are clear. Major Whitcomb Joyce, in his role as acting commanding officer of the 3rd battalion, 103rd Infantry Regiment, gave a clear and direct order to one of his subordinates: Lieutenant Dominick Sisto. And the lieutenant refused. He disobeyed. And then he compounded his disobedience by assuming command of elements of the 3rd Battalion engaged with the enemy and withdrawing them from battle against the known intent of his commander. Simple. An order was given. The lieutenant said, ‘No. I will not obey.’

  “The case is grave because the act of disobedience – as any officer who has held a position of command can tell you – is one of the most serious breaches of military discipline. It is, arguably, the most serious as obedience is the lifeblood of military effectiveness.

  “You will hear testimony as to how the 3rd Battalion was engaged in a bitter fight for a vital objective: a German–held hill serving as a key observation post in the Huertgen Forest. You will hear how, as the battalion had finally begun to penetrate the German defenses, Lieutenant Sisto’s refusal to follow Major Joyce’s order to hold his position virtually forfeited the battle to the enemy.”

  He took another pause, again bowing his head. Then he shook his head, as if some unexpected thought had taken hold and amazed him. I wondered if it was a carefully rehearsed move, or if his performance instincts were that good. Now, he began to pace the length of the jury panel, momentarily dedicating his gaze to each officer in turn.

  “To truly appreciate the gravity of the lieutenant’s offense, you must understand that the orders to take this objective originated not with the command of the 103rd Regiment; not with General Norman Cota’s headquarters of the 28th Division to which the 103rd was attached. The order had come directly from Major General Leonard Gerow’s V Corps headquarters in Eupen. It was not just Major Joyce’s authority that was refused, but Lieutenant Sisto’s act was a de facto flaunting of the authority of each layer of command up to V Corps.”

  His pacing ceased. Another pause. Then his head turned slowly in the direction of the defense table. His pacing began, again, but greatly slowed, enhancing the drama as he inch–by–inch closed with the opposition, his voice growing slightly louder, slightly harder.

  “Like you, I am interested to hear how Lieutenant Sisto’s actions will be explained. I can give you some insight. His counsel will attempt to confuse the case with side issues. How do I know this? Because, as I said to you earlier, the case is simple…and undisputed. Major Joyce issued an order in the execution of a command from Corps headquarters: this the defense cannot dispute because this is a fact! And Lieutenant Sisto heard that order and refused to obey it: this, too, they cannot dispute because this is a fact!”

  This left him standing immediately before the defense table.

  I must say, it was so deftly done – no broad emoting, no heavy–handed crescendos – that it took great will on my part not to rise and render up a wry but appropriate round of applause.

  To Dominick Sisto’s credit, it should be noted that his eyes held Courie’s; he never flinched, nor looked away.

  And Harry?

  One would have thought him deaf. From the beginning of Courie’s statement, he had busied himself with his note cards and making fresh pencilings on his foolscap pad and on fresh cards. Occasionally, he would lean rearward to confer with Peter Ricks behind the attentive Sisto’s back. He seemed so oblivious to Courie’s performance that he actually appeared taken by surprise when Joe Ryan called for his opening statement.

  Harry barely rose f
rom his seat, his attention still on the scribblings splayed before him. “Waive opening statement, Sir.”

  Joe Ryan frowned. “Do you intend to make your statement at a later time?”

  This time Harry said it slowly, as if to a confused child. “Defense–waives–opening–statement, Sir.”

  Ryan topped his shrug with an I–hope–you–know–what–you’re–doing look. “Captain Courie, please call your first witness.”

  “The prosecution calls Brigadier General Thomas Kerry.”

  Thomas Wilton Kerry so perfectly fit his rank and station one would have thought him imagined into existence by Army chieftains. He wore his 47 years lightly, had managed to keep his rough good looks, his lithe figure, and firm determined stride. His full head of black hair was cleanly swept back, regally colored with gray at the temples (such a perfect touch one would have thought it done by design). His Class As wore on him as naturally – and cleanly – as a bowler and pin–striped pants on a Parliamentarian.

  His record, so I’d learned, was equally well–kempt. Freshly graduated from West Point, he’d served with “Black Jack” Pershing in Mexico to as respectable a measure of distinction as was possible on the high–spirited if fruitless pursuit of Pancho Villa, then earned his captaincy with the AEF in France during the First Great War. He’d come into the Second Great War a member of that elite cadre who was therefore blooded and proven, and thus carried himself with enviable assurance.

  He stood before the witness chair, already raising his right arm as Courie approached him with a Bible. “General, would you please raise your right hand and place your left on the Bible. Do you affirm that the evidence you shall give in the case now in hearing shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do.”

  “Sir, please be seated and state your name, rank, and current post or assignment.”

  Terry sat, crossed his legs neatly at the knees, his peaked cap tucked in his lap. “General Thomas Kerry, assistant division commander for the 37th Infantry Division.” The voice: deep, sonorous, a little of aristocratic Virginia still tinging the syllables.

  Courie returned the Bible to his table, took a manila folder proffered by Lieutenant Alth, and took a position to Terry’s outside so as not to obstruct the panel’s view. He took his time opening the folder; yet another of those calculated, dramatic pauses.

  “General Terry, the 103rd Regiment is normally a component of the 37th Division?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did it come to be in the Huertgen attached to General Cota’s 28th Division?”

  “We had been in England for a rest and re–fit, had been since the end of August. In October, General Breen – ”

  “That would be John Breen, commanding general of the 37th?”

  “Yes, he informed me that the division had been alerted for a partial deployment to the Continent. He explained that even though the division had yet to reach its authorized strength, the manpower needs at the front had grown to the point that we had been ordered to transport whatever elements of the division had filled out their Table of Organization. The idea, then, was to commit to getting the rifle companies up to strength as our priority – that was what was needed most over here – and then as each regiment filled in, ship it over and deploy it where needed. The headquarters, artillery, and other support elements would fill in last. When they were ready and shipped over, the division would be re–integrated. Our first regiment came over in October and was attached to XIX Corps in their northeastward push toward the Rhine. The One–Oh–Three shipped over the following month and was attached to General Cota’s division.”

  “And your role in all this, Sir?”

  “Essentially, my job was to keep tabs on the deployment and condition of the regiments, and do whatever was necessary on this end to ease the final re–integration of the division.”

  “As the assistant division commander, I imagine you had a working relationship with the commanding officer of the 103rd?”

  “Henry Bright, Colonel Bright, naturally.”

  “And the battalion commanders?”

  “I had actually been the regimental commander of the 103rd before I was promoted to assistant division commander last August, so yes, I knew the three battalion commanders quite well.”

  “Based on what you knew of Colonel Bright and the three battalion commanders, even though the regiment was no longer under your auspices, so to speak, you were confident in the ability of the regiment’s senior officers?”

  “Very, yes.”

  “And in your dealings with General Cota – ”

  “An admirable officer.”

  “So, then, all told, the regiment was in capable hands.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, General. No further questions.” The folder closed, Courie gave a slight, polite nod to the general, and withdrew to his table. Evidently, he expected little from the cross–examination of an officer whose testimony was simply to fulfil a legal formality: place the 103rd at the place specified in the indictment. He appeared less interested in Harry’s cross then in a last–minute studying of the folder prepared for his next witness.

  Certainly Harry gave no sign that his cross was going to be something to cause the prosecution concern. He took some time shuffling his damnable note cards into some sort of order (enough time that Ryan needed to call him twice to take to his feet) before he rose and shambled toward the general. He never looked at the general, nor the jury panel. As he had in the earlier session, he seemed to wander restlessly about the well as he scrutinized his cards.

  “General Terry. You said the 37th Division was in England for a rest and re–fit?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it the division needed to rest and re–fit from?”

  Courie was so engrossed in his next folder that it had almost got by him, and would have had not Alth elbowed him and quickly whispered an alert in his ear. “Objection, Sir. Immaterial.”

  Harry looked up over the tops of his reading spectacles, and I could swear that look of surprise at Courie’s objection was a bit of performance of his own. He turned about to bring that same look to bear on Ryan. “I don’t know what the Judge Advocate is objecting to, Sir. He brought up the re–fit on direct.”

  “Indeed he did,” Ryan said. “Overruled. Proceed, Colonel Voss.”

  “Thank you, Sir. General, this re–fit – ”

  Terry required no further prompted. “The division was pretty well worn–down.”

  “From?”

  “Combat, of course.”

  “Where had the division been engaged, Sir?”

  “Italy.”

  “How long had the 37th been in Italy, Sir?”

  “From the beginning. We had participated in the landings at Salerno.”

  Harry closed his eyes in thought. “Ok, let’s see. Pardon me, General, but math’s not my strongpoint. That would’ve been September last year, then you said up until August…”

  Terry smiled tolerantly. “Eleven months, Colonel.”

  “Thank you. So, eleven months in action?”

  “Not constantly, of course. There were times when we rotated into a reserve position, or were even brought off the line for a time - ”

  “But the division was deployed in Italy for eleven months.”

  “Yes.”

  “Objection,” said Courie, and one could hear the wariness even in that one word. “Granting the re–fit was mentioned in direct, I still fail to see the materiality of any of this.”

  Harry’s responding recitation sounded very matter–of–fact: “The Judge Advocate is obligated to place the unit at the scene. In doing so, he back–tracked the unit to England. I’m just following that same line a little further along.”

  Ryan considered a moment, and then said, “Not too much further, I trust.” It was nudge to move on quickly. “Overruled.”

  Harry shuffled his cards, finding another. “So, General,
the division would come off the line at times, periodically take on reinforcements I would guess, then go back into action.”

  “Like any other outfit.”

  “Sure. So why was the 37th finally pulled out of Italy?”

  “That was never fully explained, but considering the condition the division was in at that time, none of us were looking a gift horse in the mouth, as they say.”

  “Understandable. Sir, did you have any sense of why – ”

  “Objection.” Not wary: firmly obstructive now. “Calls for a conclusion.”

  Harry never looked up from his cards. “Does the prosecution doubt an assistant division commander’s competence to answer the question as expert opinion?”

  Courie’s reaction was a demanding look toward Ryan.

  Ryan shrugged with quite nicely feigned helplessness. “Sorry, Captain, but I would think General Terry is qualified. Overruled. General, you may answer.”

  “General Breen and I both felt that considering how deep our needs were in the way of both personnel and materiel, the powers that be were not going to make that kind of investment in a division on ‘The Boot.’ The Continent had become the priority by that time and the resources we required were not going to a division in Italy unless –”

  “It would be to put it into action on The Continent.”

  “Yes.”

  “The division was that depleted?”

  “I would say the average replacement percentage in the rifle companies at that time was about one–third. That was an average, mind you. A few were in better shape, while there were a few that couldn’t muster a platoon’s worth of troops.”

  Courie now rose with undisguised impatience. “Colonel Ryan – ”

  Ryan held up a hand to halt him. “Colonel Voss, could we conclude this inspection tour of the Italian front?”

  Harry nodded. “General, are you personally acquainted with Lieutenant Sisto?”

  A nod and a smile in Sisto’s direction. “Yes, I am.”

  “I’ve never served in an infantry division, Sir, so if I seem uninformed, well, you understand. It strikes me as odd that an assistant division commander – or even a regimental CO for that matter – would know the name of each rifle platoon leader.”