Ordinary Heroes

by Scott Turow

  "Teedle regards it as an impediment." Seated behind a large oak desk as substantial as a half-track, Maples was smiling, touching his mustache as he often did for comfort. "Not all that different, by the way, from my clients in private practice, who gritted their teeth before talking to their lawyer. For some it was akin to the discomfort of going off to Sunday prayers.

  "I'm not trying to be difficult, Colonel, but when I think this over I still can't make top or bottom of it. Why would a decorated officer suddenly defy his commanders? The girl is rather emphatic that her romance with Martin is over."

  "Perhaps Martin has had enough of war. He wouldn't be the first. But ours is not to reason why, David. I told you, Rollie Teedle is not an enemy you need. Get out there and finish this off. Teedle wants Martin packing and on to London before you leave."

  "Yes, sir." Maples' renewed warning about Teedle banished any lingering thought of reporting Billy Bonner's accusations. I'd hesitated when I'd briefed the Colonel on my return, realizing once I was in his office that Maples would regard the charge as patent lunacy and be displeased with me for pulling the pin on this kind of hand grenade, then lobbing it on his desk. The truth was that in the presence of the Colonel, a person of gentle but unrelenting propriety, I had no idea even how to relate what Bonner had said.

  With Teedle's order in hand, Biddy and I had no trouble securing a jeep and left not long after sunrise on November 4, headed again toward Bezange-laPetite. There was now heavy traffic on the small roads with lines of trucks and armor moving out. We made slow progress and finally came to a complete halt behind a tank battalion stalled on its way north. The 761st was all colored, except for some of the officers. They were the first Negroes I had seen in combat, and they looked as apprehensive as everybody else did making the journey to the front.

  After half an hour, I took the jeep and went to see about the holdup, which proved to be three convoys crossing paths. Two MPs had arrived on motorcycles and stood at the crossroads directing traffic, just like cops at the busy hours on the streets of Center City back home.

  When I returned, Biddy and a colored soldier were having words. Biddy was shaking a finger and telling the soldier, another sergeant, not to talk to him. The fellow threw a hand in Biddy's direction and walked away as I came up.

  "What was that about?"

  "Just some boy from Georgia causing a ruckus. Said he was from that town where I grooved up." Biddy was still following the man with his eyes.

  "Was he?"

  "Mighta been. But I didn't need no strolls down memory lane, Lieutenant." The brooding air that overtook Biddy when he was dealing with the colored was evident. Whatever my reluctance about pulling rank, or disturbing our increasing amity, I felt I had no choice about speaking up.

  "A colored man's as good as anybody else, Gideon." This was my parents' perpetual lesson. Once the goyim got done with the Negroes, we all knew who'd be next. "I had several colored friends in high school, men I played music with and studied with, as fine and smart as anyone I know. I realize you come from Georgia, Biddy. I can't change the way you think, but I don't want to see it or hear it. Clear?"

  Gideon's green eyes remained on me for some time, but he seemed more startled than defiant. "Yes, sir," he said eventually.

  Ahead, the tanks were finally moving.

  When we pulled into the courtyard in front of the little castle, Gita Lodz was there, just stepping out of the Comtesse's charcoal-burning Citroen, where Antonio was at the wheel. She was dressed like a city lady, in a plaid skirt, with her wavy bronze hair pulled straight in a bun.

  "Doo-bean!" she cried, and greeted me in French. "So you return." She approached beaming and kissed me on each cheek. We were already old friends. I remarked that she did not appear to be dressed for combat. "For spying," she answered.

  "We have been to look in on some people in Strasbourg. Martin will need them soon. Antonio has fetched us from the train."

  Strasbourg was nearly seventy miles away, far behind the German lines.

  "My Lord! You just went?"

  "Pourquoi pas? Our documents say we are from Arracourt, going to see Robert's grandmere who is near death. The Nazis are oxen. A snake with proper papers could board the train. This has been our life for years, Dubin."

  Behind her, the Comtesse's house was under repair in the wake of the bombing. Heavy tarpaulins hung over many of the broken windows, although in the few instances where the shutters remained they had simply been closed. Either way, it would make for a cold winter. There had been talk after the blast that by December the Comtesse would have to abandon the house for the servants' quarters across the courtyard, which were undamaged.

  On the other side of the vehicle, Martin had arisen. Until now, I had been too intent on Gita to notice. He was dressed in a suit and a fedora, looking proper and bourgeois. I saluted, which drew a faint smile, as he wandered up with far less enthusiasm than Gita had shown.

  "Back so soon, Dubin?"

  I reminded him of my promise to return his documents. "And I've brought you a few new ones."

  He read for a while, nodding. "Very good," he said. He handed the orders back, with a bright grin. "I guess I've won this round."

  "Sir?"

  "Proves the point, doesn't it? Teedle has given up his claim to be my commanding officer. I'm under OSS direction. And London has ordered me to proceed here. That's my duty. All cleared up, I'd say."

  "Major, these documents require you to travel to London at once."

  "Yes, and I've done so and London sent me back. You're holding the proof of that in your other hand. Am I to be court-martialed because I have already carried out my orders?"

  Martin gave another glowing smile, as if this weren't flimflam. On the other hand, there wasn't much here to prove him wrong. Nothing showed OSS's involvement or that some obliging paymaster hadn't simply sent the travel papers at Teedle's request, a prospect I hadn't considered until now.

  "Major, I mean no disrespect, but even if there's a mistake, had you asked OSS to contact Third Army G-1 or Colonel Maples, this could have been resolved instantly."

  "Well, it is a mistake, Dubin, quite clearly, because I received the go-ahead by radio yesterday on an operation that's been planned for months. And inasmuch as the one thing Teedle and I now agree upon is that I take my commands from OSS, I will carry out those orders. I'll deal with your papers straightaway when we return."

  I asked the nature of this new operation, but Martin gave a strict shake of his head.

  "I'm hardly at liberty to discuss that, Dubin. The other members of Stemwinder don't even have the details yet. We work strictly on a need-to-know basis. Capture is always a risk in this line of work, Dubin. And what difference would that make?"

  "I'm just looking for a way to confirm your position, Major."

  Standing by and listening, Gita suddenly interjected, "Laisse-le venir."

  Martin drew back. What Gita had said was, Let him come.

  "Tres dangereux, non?" he responded. "Demand. E-lui." Ask him. Martin reflected, then took on a look of revelation.

  "My God, she's right. What a marvel you are, Gita, you never cease to amaze." He swung an arm around her waist and planted a paternal kiss atop her head. "You want evidence of my orders from OSS? Come watch me follow them. You say I get to present any proof I wish to your investigation, don't I?"

  "Yes, sir." Those were surely the rules.

  "Then this is it. Patton's going to be on the move again momentarily, and this operation is an essential prelude. You're more than welcome to observe, Lieutenant, to see once and for all that I'm under OSS direction and not sitting out here on Roman holiday, or whatever else it is that Teedle imagines. It will put an end to all questions. If you choose not to come, there's no more I can do."

  I had no idea, of course, what I was being asked to say yes to. Except that I'd heard the word 'dangerous.' It was a dare, actually, the man of action's challenge to the deskbound bureaucrat, and Martin was probabl
y betting I would never accept. But his logic was impeccable. If I refused, I'd have denied him the opportunity to offer the only evidence he had. In fact, reading the rules, I might even have been derelict. I told him I would have to consult Maples.

  "As you wish. But we start this afternoon, Dubin. You'll have to be there and back before three."

  That was impossible, especially with the movements on the roadways that could sidetrack us for hours. Martin, still with his hand on Gita's back, turned away, and she gave me a quick private frown before heading off beside him. I was being just the man of small points she'd ridiculed last week. Worse, I felt like a coward.

  "I'll go," I told Martin.

  Martin didn't flinch when he revolved my way, even though I'd probably called his bluff.

  "Bravo, Dubin. I'll brief you shortly. Glad to have you," he said, and continued toward the house with his arm still around Gita's waist.

  I found Bidwell with the Gypsy, Antonio, and several of the farmworkers, showing off the photos he had taken during our last visit. They were little twoby-twos and he was complaining about the supplies he'd had to work with.

  "Can't get no bigger film. Damn lucky for what I have. Wanted my folks to send some six-twenty but they-all is hoarding silver on the home front."

  Small or not, the images were striking. After the bombing, Biddy had shot through a broken window into the darkness of the house. Within, you could detect the form of a tall chifforobe, while the glass reflected uprooted trees outside leaned together like a tepee and, farther in the background, Antonio, with his long hair and dark intense eyes aimed right at the camera. Biddy had taken another photo inside the bomb crater looking up at two of the dead animals. There were also several pictures he'd snapped on our way here last time of haystacks being gathered in the open fields.

  "Put me in mind of those paintings in the Museum of Art," he said. "You seen them?" I had. Famous Impressionist works in vivid hues, but the artist's name eluded me. "Same idea," Biddy said, "but in black and white. You think that's okay?"

  They were beautiful photos. I asked what could be wrong.

  "I don't know," he said. "Seems like if you make a picture you oughta rightly be thinkin about life, not other pictures. But I got those paintings in my head."

  "Did you study art, Biddy?"

  "Aw, hell, Lieutenant, my daddy, he'd probably just keeled over dead if I'd'a tole him I was going to art school. I just liked them paintings, seein what happened to our world when it went flat. I was over there whenever I could. A lot of that, the stuff folks are doin these days especially, they really talk to me, you know?"

  My mother was always hauling me down to the museum, hoping something would rub off, but the truth was I couldn't make heads or tails of the works that excited Biddy.

  "I think I'm too practical-minded for modern art, Gideon. Art and opera. My mother loves that, too. But I like your photographs."

  He shook his head. "You see things through that lens, Lieutenant, you can't catch with your eye. And I like how I feel when I'm lookin, with that contraption between me and everything else. Here in this mess and able to stand back like that, I'm a million miles away sometimes." He looked at me. "I don't know what the hell I'm talkin about, you know."

  "You're making plenty of sense, Biddy. Don't sell yourself short. Maybe you should think about art school."

  "Maybe I should. We-all gotta live through this first."

  That was the reminder I needed. I told him about my conversation with Martin. As his expression darkened, I could see he was resisting the impulse to stab me.

  "No disrespect, Lieutenant, but what the heck is it you call yourself doin?"

  I tried to explain the logic of the rules that required me to follow where Martin led.

  "This here," said Biddy, "is how the law sure enough don't make sense. Figures Martin'd use it against you. Ain't no tellin what kinda trouble a huckster like that is gonna get us into, Lieutenant."

  "This is my frolic and detour, Biddy. You're not required."

  "Hell, I'm not. You think they send an MP sergeant out here with you, Lieutenant, just to drive? Ain't no way I can let you go do this whatever on your lonesome. Only I'd think a grooved man would have the sense to ask what he was doin 'fore he said yes." Biddy had never been this direct with me, but after the scolding I'd given him on the way here, he apparently felt inclined to speak his mind. And there was no question of his loyalty. Still shaking his head, he walked beside me toward the little castle to see what was in store for us.

  By 3:30, we had moved out. In a time of short provisions, Martin was remarkably well supplied. He may have been the scourge of General Teedle, but in these parts he was widely respected, and the Quartermaster with the Yankee Division had given the Major whatever he needed for this venture more than a month ago. Biddy and I had our choice of combat and cargo packs, cartridge belts and MIA' carbines. I hadn't fired a weapon since training camp, and I spent some time handling the rifle to bring back the feel of it. We had come with our own raincoats, which we folded behind us over our belts, following the example of the rest of our party, which consisted of Gita, Martin, Antonio, and two locals, Christian and Henri. They were frumpy-looking farmers, a father and son, both shaped like figs. They trudged along in silence at Martin's side, acting as guides, with American rifles over their shoulders. Beside me, Gita was in farm overalls, but wore a surplus Army helmet with the liner tightened to the maximum so it fit her.

  "Do you like battle, Mademoiselle Lodz?"

  "No one should like battle, Dubin. It is much too frightening. But Martin's style is most successful when not a gun is fired. You will see."

  "But it remains strange to me to think of a woman in combat."

  She laughed, but not in good humor. "ca, c'est le comble!" That's the last straw. "Men think only they can fight. With guns? With planes? With artillery. Who is not strong enough to pull a trigger, Dubin, or throw a grenade?"

  "Yes, but a man who does not fight is called a coward. No one expects this of you. Quite the contrary. Do you think fighting is as much in a woman's nature as a man's?"

  "Knowing what is right is in the nature of everyone. I allow, Dubin, that I do not enjoy killing. But many men feel as I do, and fight nonetheless."

  Martin had turned back to us with a finger to his lips, inasmuch as we were leaving the Comtesse's lands. I still had little idea where we were headed. Martin would brief us only when we'd made camp for the night. For the time being, he wanted to use the weakening daylight to move ahead. We proceeded due north, across adjoining farms. Knowing the fence lines and the old paths, Henri led us along at a good pace. The rains held off while we hiked, but the ground everywhere was soft and in the lowlands we splashed through standing water, soaking my wool trousers and the socks inside my shoepacs.

  As darkness encroached, I was certain we were behind Nazi lines. Martin, Biddy, and I were in uniform and stood at least a chance, if captured, of being taken prisoner, rather than executed. The Frenchmen with us were all but certain to be shot on the spot. But there was no sign of Germans. In these parts, the locals were firmly committed to the Free French, and Martin regarded his intelligence on enemy positions as virtually faultless. Nonetheless, whenever possible, we remained on the other side of the shallow hills, so we were not visible from the road, and ducked into the trees if we were near a wooded draw. When there was no choice but to cross an open field, we ambled along in pairs, as if we were hikers.

  At one point, as we stopped briefly to refill our canteens in a spring, Martin came back to check on me. Gita and Antonio were on lookout at the perimeter, apparently enough security for a quiet conversation.

  "Holding up?"

  I was hardly laboring with a full pack. I had a bedroll, a canteen, a bayonet, and ammunition, but I hadn't been out on maneuvers since basic and Martin was right to suspect I was tired. I told him I was fine.

  "Nothing like this in the past, I assume?" he asked.

  "I was trained as
an infantry officer, but aside from exercises, no."

  "You'll have an exciting time. You'll be thanking Gita for suggesting this." He waited. "She seems to have taken a shine to you."

  "Has she? I'm honored. She is very charming." Then as the only avenue to approach the lingering question, I added, You have a charming woman.

  "Oh, yes," he said, "very charming. Only I doubt that Gita would agree.

  "That she's charming?"

  "That she is my woman. Candidly, I wonder if Gita would ever choose but one man. Besides," he said, "she is much too young for me." He had raised his eyes to her up on the hill, where the wind tossed around the kinks of dark gold hair that escaped her helmet. "I have only one thing I want for her, really. Most of all, Dubin, I would like to see her safe. That would be my last wish. Were I permitted one. I owe her that." Catching Martin's eye as we were looking her way, Gita knotted her small face in an open frown.

  "There, you see. She is always displeased with me." His glance fell to the ground. "Does she speak ill of me?"

  I didn't understand the crosscurrents here, only that they were treacherous.

  "On the contrary," I answered. "She is your admirer.''

  "Surely not always. She calls me a liar to my face."

  "Does she?" I felt certain that Martin knew exactly what Gita had said to me the last time I was here. "It is the nature of this life, Dubin. Somewhere, buried in the recesses of memory, is the person I was before I was Robert Martin." He pronounced his full name as if it were French: Ro-bear Mar-tan. "But I was trained to tell every tale but his. And it suits me well, Dubin. No soul in war is the same as she or he was before. You'll learn that soon enough."

  He took a tiny humpbacked metal cricket from his pocket and gave its twanging steel tongue two clicks, calling an end to our respite. Scampering down from the prominence, Gita fell in at the head of our column but shortly worked her way back to me, as we were weaving through a small woods. She had heard her name and wanted to know what Martin had said. I tried to satisfy her with the most neutral remark I remembered.

  "He told me he hopes you are safe. When the war ends."