by James Jones
“As you see, its practically the same lineup they had on Maggio,” Lt Culpepper beamed, “except for the Resisting Arrest.”
“Dont you reckon they could work that one in too some way?” Prew said.
“However this is all within the Regiment,” Lt Culpepper said. “Whereas with Maggio it happened downtown and the Department Provost Marshal’s office came into it. In your case though, its only Capt Holmes your Company Commander who preferred the charges against you. So even with this Special Court, you cant possibly get more than three months and two-thirds.”
“That’s good,” Prew said.
“And if we work it right,” Lt Culpepper said, “we can make it even less. But they’ve got the goods on you right, and theres no doubt you are guilty. Also, you have gotten yourself on just about everybody’s shitlist in the Regiment. They’ve all more or less got it in for you and you’ve got a bad reputation as a bolshevik and a fuckup since you came to G Company. And of course that makes a tremendous difference, since its all politics anyway, you see. They’ve really got you.”
“I can see that,” Prew said.
“Well, thats why I want you to plead guilty,” Lt Culpepper said triumphantly. “We have to fight it the same way. Politically. Not with this legal crap. I’ve made a study of these things, Prewitt. I wrote a very radical term paper for that course in courts martial procedure that created a hell of a hullabaloo at the Point. Got me all sorts of recognition. I pointed out how legal procedure has always tacitly been concerned with human relations, rather than abstract justice, and that consequently in spite of legal codes it is really the human relations underneath that determine the verdicts in the courts. And that, of course, means politics. You see? You understand that?”
“It sounds reasonable,” Prew said.
“Reasonable hell!” Lt Culpepper exploded. “It was a veritable bomb. I proved conclusively that there just aint no such thing as abstract justice, simply because all legal decisions are influenced by the temporary inconstant of public feeling. For my best example. I used the imprisonments of Debs and the 101 IWW Wobblies during the last war, which could never have happened without the high public feeling because of the war hysteria, not only because it was legally unsound but because Landis would never have dared do it in ordinary times. Then I brought in the political angle by showing how Darrow, who had defended the Wobblies before out west, had suddenly developed business that prevented him from defending them this time. You see how it all ties in together?” Lt Culpepper said enthusiastically.
“Oh, it was a beauty of a paper, Prewitt. Why, I even prophesied the time would come—after this next war, and the resulting civilian army—when EM would be allowed to serve on courts with officers! But, I pointed out also, that it would actually still be the same thing as now because any EM who got on a court would naturally be a M/Sgt or Tech or 1st/Sgt, or even if he was a Private, whose human relations would be naturally on the same side as the officers.
“You can imagine what that did to them. It got me more publicity than the fencing championship did. None of them, not even the profs, could break the logic of it. You can see that yourself. The way to get recognition in this world is to startle people. Somebody once said that bad publicity was better than no publicity. But I say, bad publicity is better than good publicity. Shock people and they remember you. Any dumb son of a bitch can get good publicity.”
“I bet you felt good about it,” Prew said.
“Good!” Lt Culpepper said. “Why Prewitt, it was the thing that made me at the Point, thats all. After that paper, I was a made man. But thats what we’re working with here, you see? The same damn thing.”
Lt Culpepper took a deep breath. “And thats why I want you to plead guilty. Why, its a thing that I dont think has ever been done in the history of courts martial. Nobody ever pleads guilty at a court martial because the court never makes concessions for clemency.”
“Then it wont do much good, will it?” Prew said. “I——”
“You wait a minute. Let me lay it out for you before you go off half cocked. You dont see the implications yet.”
“In the first place,” Prew said, “I wasnt drunk. Not drunk enough that I dint know what I was doing.”
“Thats my whole point,” Lt Culpepper grinned triumphantly. “Whether you were really drunk or not doesnt matter. What matters is the witnesses say you were drunk. And by pleading guilty and admitting that you were, you merely turn around and use their own testimonies against them.”
“In other words,” Prew said, “you mean I can prove they were lying by admitting what they say is true.”
“Well,” the lieutenant said, “you can put it that way, yes. But I didnt say they were lying. Maybe they’re telling the truth.”
“How can they be telling the truth if I’m telling the truth when I say I wasn’t drunk?”
“Well in one sense they are lying, if you werent drunk. But in another sense they may be telling the truth, in that they really believe you were drunk. So actually, you both may be telling the truth, as you see it, and still disagree. See?”
“Yeah,” Prew said. “Its deep, aint it?”
Lt Culpepper nodded. “And a lawyer has to take all those things into account for you. Thats why they appoint one. But all that is beside the point. The point is what is in the testimonies. The court wont believe you if you say you werent drunk. They may not come right out and say it, but in their minds they will. Because every criminal always protests he is innocent. Thats SOP. That only helps convict you, you see? What you’ll really be doing is only trading a worthless fiction for three or four months in jail. The truth has nothing to do with the legal code a court martial runs by, or with the human relations that run the legal code. You see?”
“I guess so,” Prew said. “But I——”
“Now wait a minute. I had this typed out, saying you were drunk and didnt know what you were doing.”
Lt Culpepper opened the new yellow leather briefcase with the zipper on three sides and hunted in it and pulled out a paper and handed it to him. Then he closed the zipper lovingly.
“You read it over, to see its not putting you in a hole. I wouldnt want you to sign anything without reading it. Never sign anything without reading it, Prewitt. It’ll get you in trouble someday, if you do. And then after you’ve read it and signed it, we’ll turn it in out of the blue at the trial and I’ll ask for clemency with the court. Then they cant honorably give you more than a month and two-thirds, maybe only the two-thirds fine with no jail time.”
“I was always told military courts never accepted appeals for clemency,” Prew said.
“Thats it,” Lt Culpepper said enthusiastically. “Now you’re getting it. I bet its never been done before in the history of courts martial. If it has, I never heard of it. We’ll floor them.”
“But I dont——”
“Now wait,” Lt Culpepper admonished. “You haven’t heard the tipoff yet. Nobody,” he paused; “in the Army,” he paused; “considers drunkenness a misdemeanor or a sin, now do they? You know thats true. Its illegal but everybody does it. I get teed up myself up at the Club all the time, they all do it. In fact, although they never publish it in a Special Order of course or anything like that, most commanding officers like their wild and woolly boys by far the best because they know that kind of devil-may-care attitude is what makes the best soldiers. Actually, most officers feel that a soldier who doesnt get drunked up and go on a rampage now and then isnt worth his salt and is a suspicious character. Right?”
“I dont see how that has anything to do with me pleading guilty,” Prew said.
“Well my God, man, dont you see? If you admit you were drunk and were just feeling your oats was all, then we turn the tables right back on them, because the getting drunk itself is tacitly considered more of a virtue than a sin, to a real soldier. The court, who understand and believe that, couldnt honestly give you three months, let alone the limit, just for being a hell-for-leather wild-an
d-woolly soldier. Of course, legally you would be guilty; but we dont care about that What we’re aiming for is to influence the human relations of the court that underlie the legal code and in reality are what determine their decisions.”
Lt Culpepper looked at Prew triumphantly brilliantly and got out his Parker 51 pen for him to sign with, but Prew would not take the pen.
“That sounds like a swell idea, Lootenant,” he said grudgingly. “And I hate to disappoint you after you figured it all out and worked on it so hard. But I just cant plead guilty for you, Lootenant.”
“But why the hell not, man!” Lt Culpepper exploded. “And besides, you’re not doing it for me. I explained it all to you, didnt I? The whole key of my case lies in your pleading guilty. I cant do a thing for you if you dont. It’ll be just another run-of-the-mill court martial, no different from ten thousand others. Neither one of us will get any recognition out of it.”
“I cant help it,” Prew said. “I aint guilty. And I aint going to plead guilty. Not even if it would mean a full acquittal. I’m sorry, but thats the way it is.”
“My god, man!” Lt Culpepper cried exasperatedly. “What has that got to do with it? Nobody gives a damn whether you’re guilty or not. The court doesnt care. Its all governed by the legal code, and the human relations beneath it that run it. No court could possibly give a soldier the maximum just for feeling his oats and getting drunk and in trouble, not if he admits it. Why, getting drunk and running wild is not only a soldier’s nature, its almost his sacred duty; just like the way Ernest Hemingway said that syph was the occupational disease of bullfighters and soldiers. Its the same damn thing.”
“Did you ever have it, Lootenant?”
“Have what?”
“The syph.”
“Who? Me? Hell, no. Whats that got to do with it?”
“Well, I’ve never had it either,” Prew said grimly. “But I’ve had the clap. And if syph and clap are the occupational diseases of soldiers, then I’ll get out and be a garage mechanic.
“Besides,” he said, “I aint begging none of them for nothing. If they want to railroad this case like that, they can do it. I wont brown-nose with none of them, even if they are proud of their men getting drunk. I aint never asked nobody for nothing, and I aint starting now, Lootenant.”
Lt Culpepper scratched his head with his Parker 51 pen and then put it back in his pocket. He took out his Parker 51 pencil and got a piece of blank paper out of the briefcase and began to draw doodles on it with the pencil.
“Okay, but you think it over. I’m sure you’ll come around when you see how important it is. Why, Prewitt, do you realize we might establish a whole new legal procedure for military courts? Think what it might mean to whole future generations of soldiers.”
“I’ve thought about it all I need to,” Prew said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, after you’ve worked so hard on it, Lootenant. But I aint pleading guilty,” he said, with finality.
“You hit the man, didnt you?” Lt Culpepper cried. “My god, man!”
“Sure I hit him. And do it again, too.”
“If you hit him, you are guilty. Thats open and shut. Why try to hide the truth?”
“I wont plead guilty, Lootenant,” Prew said.
“Jesus Christ!” Lt Culpepper said. “I never saw such a stubborn bastard. You’ll deserve all you get. You got no more gratitude than a fish. If you dont give a damn for yourself, you might at least think of me. I didn’t ask to be appointed your defense counsel.”
“I know it,” Prew said. “And I’m sorry about it.” He did not look up from his shoes, but his face was still set just as stolidly as ever.
Lt Culpepper sighed. He put his Parker 51 pencil back in his pocket with his Parker 51 pen and put the confession paper and the doodle paper back in the briefcase and closed the zipper and stood up. “All right,” he said. “Just the same, you think it over. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Prew got up from the bunk with him. Lt Culpepper shook his hand.
“Chin up,” he said.
Prew watched him hustle back out through the line of bars with the open door of bars, past the guard corporal who saluted, back into the other world with his new yellow briefcase with the zipper on three of its sides. Then Prew got the old deck of cards out from under the pillow.
He had played five games and come within an ace of running one of them out when The Warden came into the office on the other side of the line of bars with the open door of bars. The Warden was carrying the clean suit of fatigues the OD had requested from the Company to replace the dirty ones he said were beginning to stink so bad it was hurting the morale of the guard, although this was an exaggeration.
“I have to have a goddam permit to give this monstrous criminal his goddam clean clothes?” The Warden said to the guard corporal, “or can I do it informal like this?”
“What?” the corporal said guiltily, trying to cover the comic book with his arm. “Oh,” he said. “Thats all right. Go right on back, Sergeant. You didnt need to bring them yourself, Sergeant.”
“Who the fuck would bring them,” the Warden snorted, “if I dint bring them myself.”
“I dont know,” the corporal said defensively. “I just said——”
“What’re you reading?” The Warden snorted viciously. “The story of J Edgar and Mel Purvis and the Stool Pigeon In Red? Dont tell me you want to grow up to be a G Man too? If the whole next generation becomes G Men who they going to find to arrest?”
“What?” the corporal said. He took his arm off the comic book. It was The Batman. “Oh,” he laughed, “I see. Thats pretty good, Sarge.” He closed the comic book and put it in the desk drawer guiltily. “Just passin the time was all,” he said defensively.
“Aint you going to search this bindle?” The Warden said. “Maybe I got a couple files in there.”
The corporal looked at him dumbly. Then he laughed, and shook his head.
“You’re sure you trust me now,” The Warden said. “How you know I aint a cop-killer in disguise?”
“Thats pretty good,” the corporal laughed. “I dont know,” he laughed. “Maybe you are. Go right on back, Sarge, if you want.”
Milt Warden snorted disgustedly and walked down between the two rows of cots that were empty now in the afternoon and the corporal wiped his face off with his hand.
“I dont know what I want to waste my wit on dumb jerks like that for,” Warden grunted disgustedly as he threw the fatigues on the cot. He looked at the hand spread out on the blanket. “You beating him?” he said.
“Not yet,” Prew said.
“Well, dont worry, kid. You’ll have plenty time yet to practice.”
“Aint they got a date fixed for the trial yet?” Prew said collecting the cards. “Jesus Christ.”
“No,” Warden said, “I mean after you leave here.”
“Oh,” Prew said. “But maybe they wont let me play sol in the Stockade.” He got up and began to strip off the musty stale fatigues. By god, they did smell bad at that.
“Probly not,” Warden said, watching him. “They’ll make you wear your GI underwear though. The trial’s for next Monday,” he said, “just come through while ago. Thats four days yet. Maybe you can run it out once by then.”
“I might,” Prew said. He put on the clean fatigues and sat down again. “Culpepper said he dint think I’d get more than three months and two-thirds. Since, like he said, this one’s all in the family.”
“Thats about right,” Warden said. “Unless you say something to make them mad at you at the trial.”
“I’m keepin my mouth shut.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Warden snorted. “Oh,” he said, “here.” He pulled a carton of tailormades out of his hip pocket. “Heres some butts.”
“Well thanks,” Prew said.
“Dont thank me, kid. Them’s from Andy and Friday. I wouldnt buy you no cigarets. You’ve made me about a week’s extra paper work as it is.”
Pre
w felt himself grinning. “Well I’m sure sorry,” he said. “I sure feel for you, Warden. But,” he said, “I cant quite seem to reach you.”
The Warden stood staring down at him angrily indignantly, then suddenly he grinned. “You’re sure usin up the fatigues in a hurry. What’re they doin, workin you for a change?” He sat down on the bunk and ripped open the carton viciously, opened one of the packs and lit one of Prew’s new tailormades.
“Not much,” Prew said. “Pull a few weeds up to the playground. I dont mind it.”
“That aint so bad.”
“You reckon,” Prew said, “all them cute little kids will all grow up to be officers.”
“Probly,” Warden said. “A shame, aint it?
“I got the forms out and sent in yesterday,” he said. “That was the best I could do. I had to light on Mazzioli all spraddled out to get the typescript witnesses’ statements done in time to go in that early. That son of a bitch is so lazy I even thought for a while I’d have to do them myself too.”
“I dont suppose,” Prew said slowly, “any of them mentioned the knife this time either, did they?”
Warden did not say anything. He studied him narrowly. “What knife?” he said.
“Old Ike’s knife he pulled on me,” Prew grinned.
Warden did not say anything for quite a while this time. “You told anybody else about this?” he said finally.
“Nope,” Prew said. “I aint.”
“Could you prove he pulled a knife on you?”
“I reckon they could take a couple sledgehammers and bust open the garbage rack and find the blade down in the crack where I broke it off for him.”
Warden rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Culpepper might just do it,” he said. “Nobody else would. But Culpepper wants to make a big splash since this is his first case. He might just do it. Its worth a try. Are you going to tell him about it?”
“No,” Prew said. “I dont think I am.”
“Why the hell not? Its worth a try.”
