by Bill Mesce
I could only imagine how Sisto was reacting as the officers on the panel – including Pietrowski – seemed to drop their eyes or look away, as if to give the lieutenant a moment to himself.
Then, from Sisto in a quivering voice: “Thank you, Sir.”
Pietrowski’s face grew hard once more. “Major Joyce.”
Joyce stood a little straighter. “Sir.”
“Major, combat command is the ultimate test of an army officer. As a test, there’s nothing fair about it. You’re asked to make decisions based on poor information, fragmentary information, wrong information. You’re asked to make those decisions quickly, and in response to a situation which may be changing minute to minute. In the end, more than training and good intelligence, you end up making a good number of your command decisions on nothing more than judgment and instinct. The truth of it is, even the best commanders don’t always make the right call. You just hope they get it right more than not.
“A man has to have some kind of ability to attain his majority in the U.S. Army, even these days. But, Major Joyce, I’m afraid we’re all in agreement you have neither the judgment nor temperament for combat command. We will recommend to Colonel Bright that he approve your request for transfer to a non–combat echelon at the earliest possible time, preferably a unit unaffiliated with either the 28th or your own 37th Division.” Pietrowski paused, waiting to see if Joyce would volunteer any rebuttal or response.
After a long pause, there was simply a weak, “Yes, Sir.”
Pietrowski had been soft with Sisto, hard with Joyce, but now, as he turned to Courie, his face clouded with anger and he made no effort to conceal it. “Captain Courie!”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Captain, right now I’m talking as much for myself as any of these other officers because I’m on General Cota’s staff and I know how this case was first presented to him over a month ago. That case and the one we’ve spent the last few days listening to are not the same animal, Captain! The only explanations I can come up with is that you’re either incredibly incompetent, or…” He shook that leonine head. “Anything else, I don’t want to speak about in public. But you will get a chance to explain it to the general. You are ordered to present yourself at the earliest possible time to General Cota and tell him how in the hell we got from what you first told us to this God–awful waste of time!
“Colonel Ryan!”
Ryan snapped to attention. “Sir!”
“You’re not out from under on this, either! This man is under your command; this happened on your watch! You’re going to have to do a fair bit of explaining yourself on how you let this happen!”
“Yes, Sir!” Ryan said with the self–assurance of someone who’d made plans for just such a contingency.
Pietrowski turned back to Courie. “It will be our unanimous recommendation that you be transferred at the earliest possible time to a non–judicial branch of the service, preferably Stateside.” Pietrowski leaned forward in his chair, his voice dropping to a malevolent growl. “Captain, do you have something waiting for you after the war? A job? A position?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“That’s good, because if you were hoping for a career in the Army after the war, I’d forget it if I were you.”
Pietrowski turned to Ryan. “We’re done here, Colonel.”
Ryan called the room to attention. “Dismissed!”
The jury panel filed out first, Pietrowski in the lead. As he neared the three men still standing at attention in the well, he turned to Sisto and took his hand. “You did a good job out there, son, and if you need a ride to Wiltz, I’d be happy to share my car with you.”
And that’s how it was with all of them as they passed: they’d take Sisto’s hand, pass a few complimentary words before moving on.
I cared not a whit for Leonard Courie’s feelings. In fact, I must confess to enjoying the scene of him stomping out of the chapel after the other members of the court had left, his face a picture of choleric fury as he left young Alth to scoop up the papers and reference works on the prosecution table.
But as to Whitcomb Joyce, I could not help but feel otherwise.
He had stood there, gamely holding his stance of attention while the panel members passed him as if he was nonexistent, hearing their plaudits go to the man next to him. When the panel had left followed by Ryan, Joyce turned smartly about to exit the chapel. And then I could see his face: ashen, dispirited, I even thought perhaps on the verge of tears.
Harry felt that same pang I felt – I could see it as he watched Joyce leave – and now I understood what he’d meant when he’d told Dominick Sisto, “He’s not the enemy.” Indeed not. He was just another sort of victim.
La comtesse leaned over, kissed my cheek while giving my shoulder a tender squeeze, and rose to her feet. “You should give to your friend his congratulation.” She smiled sadly. “Adieu, Edouard,” she said, turned for the door, and left.
CHAPTER EIGHT: Ishmail
“MADAME! S’IL VOUS PLAIS!” I knocked harder on the door, tried the knob, found it locked. “Adrienne! C’est moi! Edouard!” I listened at the door, but heard nothing. I stood for a moment at a loss, alone in this corridor braced by empty rooms…empty save the one behind the locked door.
The sound of a horse’s whinny carried up faintly from the grounds outside. I hurried to the end of the corridor, up a turret staircase to the walkway along the top of the walls.
There was quite a bustle about the front gate. The chateau had always been spare of distractions, and now with the court–martial over, the “guests of the court” were wasting little time in their leaving. The mess crew that Courie had brought to the chateau were already loading their gear into one lorry, while at another, other hands under the supervision of Lieutenant Alth were loading up the office accoutrements the prosecutor had been so loathe to share with his defense colleagues. The higher ranking members of the jury panel had jeeps or staff cars lining up at the barbican to return them to their commands, while the enlisted witnesses gathered in a knot by the tailgate of a deuce–and–a–half awaiting the last of their still–packing comrades before climbing aboard. At the rate occupants were abandoning the chateau, it was my guess that the place would be back to its somnambulant, near–empty self – inhabited only by la comtesse and the small crew of Signal Corpsmen – by the afternoon.
The ado below me at the gate distracted me for but a moment, then I was looking out between the crenels, past the scarp and far out on the snow–dusted list. Atop her dark steed, draped in her dark cloak, even against snow gray under the dull, overcast sky, she stood out a striking, black shadow, like a black paper cameo the street artists cut and set against white lace. She did not gallop but moved the horse along at a steady lope. I did not bother to hail after her; she would not have heard me above the noises of the joking men and idling engines below me.
But then she stopped and pulled the head of her horse about. I like to think it was I she raised her hand for, not so much a wave or farewell, but a simple acknowledgement. She waited until I raised my own in response, then her hand dropped, she brought her mount back round, and with a slight pressure of her heels trotted off across the remainder of the field and soon disappeared among the shadows of the surrounding forest.
I was suddenly aware of just how icy cold it was there atop the stone walls. I began to shiver.
*
Dominick Sisto was now a free man, and the door to his quarters stood unguarded, unlocked, and open. When I entered, he was just squeezing the last of his belongings into his duffel bag. Peter Ricks was with him. Sisto – like most men from whom a great weight has been lifted – was quite gay and effusive, rehashing the highlights of the trial, re–enacting his most treasured moments: Joyce’s eroding self–possession on the stand; any one of Courie’s eruptions; Harry’s tortoise–like patrols of the courtroom well during his cross–examinations, etc. And, of course, he performed them with the lush hyperbole which seems to be a prereq
uisite for such recountings.
Ricks was a willing, enthusiastic audience. I think the victory had released his own nagging weight.
“Where’s Harry?” I asked.
“Ah, we already did our good byes,” Sisto said. “I don’t think he likes to be mushy in front of a crowd.”
“He reminded Junior here to behave himself,” Ricks put in, “which I was about to do myself.”
“Gee,” Sisto said, cinching his bag closed, “one little goof and they hold it over you – ”
“One little goof my ass!” Ricks laughed and tossed a pillow at Sisto’s head. Sisto crossed his eyes at the blow, feigned paralysis and fell across the bed like an axed tree in a manner which would have made any cine cartoon character proud.
Sisto pulled on his windcheater. “Well, I guess that’s it for clean sheets and hot food.”
“It’s a rest area,” Ricks soothed. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
“Even if it’s the Ritz…I mean, Jesus, Cap, I’ve been sleeping in a fucking castle!” A shared laugh. He took a more serious tack as he took Peter Ricks’ hand. “Ya know, Cap, you’re not too bad at this! You might want to think about taking it up full–time again.”
It was touching to see Ricks – I swear – almost blush at the compliment. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
He turned to me. “Mr. O, you were the goddamned cavalry to the rescue, brother! If it wasn’t for you – ”
I held up a finger for silence. “As Peter there will tell you, throwing compliments my way is not unlike dropping lit matches in the petrol tank. Your thanks are appreciated and enough said.”
I took his hand and he clasped his second one over mine. “I owe you big time, Mr. O. All of you guys.” The warm smile turned pixyish again. “As my mom would say – ” then, holding my hand so I was unable to defend myself, his other hand painfully pinched my cheek then slapped me “ – you’re such a goood boy!”
“Knock–knock!” It was Joe Ryan standing in the doorway.
“Colonel Irish!” Sisto snapped to an exaggerated attention and flashed a British–style palms–up salute. “All hail the man in the Big Chair!”
“Kiss my ass!” Ryan smirked and the two men shook hands.
“If you hadn’t brought the signor in, Colonel – ”
“And to think you fought me on that!” Ryan chided.
“That’s why he’s got eagles on his shoulders!” Sisto said to Ricks and me as he nodded respectfully at Ryan.
“I have to ask you,” here Ryan pretending to be the probing barrister, “just exactly how much of what went on in that last round did you understand?”
“You mean all that legal stuff the signor and Courie were throwing back and forth? To be honest, I haven’t understood too much of what’s been going on since this mess started. But I did get that part about all the charges getting chucked out. After that, I’m not too worried about the fine points!”
More laughs.
“Now listen!” Ryan addressed Sisto, now the firm paterfamilias, a reprimanding finger poking into the lieutenant’s face. “You stay out of trouble from now on! You pretty much used up your luck rations on this one, Dominick! Be nice! Particularly to people who outrank you! If you’re going to call them assholes, make sure you put, ‘Sir!’ after it, ok?”
“Ok.” Then, pointedly, “Sir.” More laughs.
Now it was Ryan’s turn to twist and slap Sisto’s cheek. I reminded myself to inquire as to this odd, painful expression of obvious affection at some future date.
“Where’s Harry?” Ryan asked and Sisto told him. “I wonder what he wants to do with this?” He extracted a wireless message form from his blouse pocket. “This is from Corporal Thom.”
“Jesus, I almost forget about poor Andy!” Sisto said.
“You guys sent him off on some scavenger hunt trying to find somebody? This came in a little while ago. Looks like he found him, but I guess it’s moot now.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, Colonel, maybe you could radio back to him, tell him the show’s over and I’ll meet him in Wiltz.”
Ryan agreed. “Are you going to ride back with Pietrowski?”
“I thought about it,” Sisto said, “but I think I’m gonna ride back in the truck with the guys. I mean, I’d be sitting there with this light colonel and what am I gonna say to the guy to pass the time?” Sisto became concerned. “What about you, Colonel?”
“Me?”
“He said you were going to have to go in front of Cota with Courie and – ”
Ryan was already making assuaging waves of his hand. He turned to me. “The kid does not know to whom he is speaking.” Another flick of his hand beckoning me to explain.
“Laddie, fear not for the man in the Big Chair! He is The Master. La Maestro! Unless I’ve seriously underestimated the man, it’s entirely possible he’ll come out of this with a better standing than he had before!”
“Possible?” Ryan seemed offended. “You mean probable!”
“Hail The Master!” Ricks championed.
“Bravo!” I seconded.
Dominick Sisto hoisted his bag on his shoulder and began to leave.
Then, without mirth, and with a sincerity I’d often doubted Ryan had, the colonel adjusted the bag on the lad’s shoulder. “I’ll see you home, Dominick.” He ruffled the diminutive lieutenant’s garrison cap about his head, swatted him on the derriere, and sent him out the door.
We three stood there a moment, mute as one is after a parting, there being nothing much left to say. Ryan sighed. “Well, well…” He shook off the mood. “Where’d you say Harry was?”
We followed him down the corridor, knocked on the closed door, found Harry neatly folding his things before tucking them in his B–4 bag. Another bag bulging with his legal reference books already sat packed. “Dominick leave?”
Ryan nodded. “This came for you. Dominick said to radio the kid back and just send him on to Wiltz to hook up with the rest of the outfit.”
Harry took the radio message from Ryan. He smiled in wry amusement. “That’s why we could never find him on any of the battalion rosters. He wasn’t a member of the battalion. He was with the Air Corps.”
“Air Corps?” I said, puzzled.
“A Forward Air Controller,” Ryan explained.
“Those are the guys they stick with the forward outfits to help coordinate air strikes,” Ricks amplified. “Remember: they had air support scheduled for the second and third tries at the hill. The planes never came through. This poor bastard must’ve been stuck up there…” Ricks’ eyebrows rose, impressed. “Now that is bad luck!”
Harry looked the message over a few more moments before he tucked it in his blouse. I think we all were struck by his stillness, his quietude.
Ryan looked to Ricks and I. “Am I in the right room? This is the guy who won, isn’t it?”
“That’s me,” Harry said without enthusiasm as he began sliding his few clothing articles into the bag.
“What is it, Harry?” Ryan asked.
Harry tried to shrug it off. “I’m just tired.”
“Bullshit.”
“What it is…” His stubby fingers toyed with the handle of his bag. “What it is is I keep thinking of what Van Damm said.”
“You mean about getting the kid off and then he gets sent back up to the front?” This was from Ricks for the confused Ryan’s benefit.
Harry nodded. His head cocked in a memory. “Remember, Pete? I think it was your first time back from Italy. Last year, in London. You said something like, ‘You can do everything right and still somebody’s going to get hurt’? Well…”
Ryan pretended to throw his fingers about Harry’s throat for the purpose of strangulation. “Jesus, Harry, you’re just obligated to be one of those every–silver–lining–has–a–cloud guys! Well, screw that! You did a good job! You beat the bad guys and Lenny Courie is a bad guy! Well, he’s a pain in the ass, anyway – my ass! You did a good job and fuck you if
you don’t think so!” Ryan picked up Harry’s tin of tooth powder from the neatly arranged grouping of toilet articles, sprinkled a bit on the tip of his finger and began rubbing his teeth. “And don’t worry about Dominick! Where they’re sending him, his biggest worry will be getting bored shitless.” He stood over the room’s washstand and spat into the basin. “You know, I have to go waltz around a bit with General Cota. I’ll probably be down there a day or two. Tell you what: why don’t you and these two henchmen of yours hang around Liege until I get back up there? I’ll radio ahead and have quarters waiting for you. I’ve got your trip ticket already doped out. Then, when I get back, we’ll celebrate right.”
“I really should be getting back to Rome.”
“Harry, trust me: nobody’s in Rome awaiting your return with bated breath.”
Harry turned to me. “Does this guy know how to sweet–talk me or what?” He snatched back his tooth powder and packed it.
“Everybody knows I love you, Harry. Look, by tomorrow – the day after at the latest – Lenny Courie’s going to have his ass on a cannon and shot home. That’s going to leave my T/O short a lawyer.” He turned to Ricks. “I can make room for two.”
Considering the hostility with which Ryan had first greeted Ricks several weeks earlier, the captain was greatly impressed with the generosity of the offer.
“Or,” Ryan counter–offered, “I can send you home, Harry. Get you posted back to Dix like you used to have it, spend the weekends with Cynthia and the kids.”
Harry seemed strangely uncomfortable with either choice. “How about when you get back to Liege, we’ll talk about it.”
“A loooong talk.”
“Yeah. Be careful down there in Wiltz, Joe.”
“It’s doing what I do best, Harry.”
Harry zipped up the last of his things, pulled on his windcheater, turned for his bags only to find that Ryan already had both in hand. We moved into the corridor, then Ricks and I headed for our respective rooms to get our own bags as Ryan led Harry toward the stairs.