The Devil's Tub

by Edward Hoagland

  One Wednesday afternoon the colonel returned from a hearing with his eyes alive and his lips buttoned up. A case of failure to obey. The two of them argued again, the word in this instance being “scum.”

  “Scum is scum, my friend, I’m afraid,” he said, unbuttoning. “We gave him a good chance to think about it. We gave him about six months, as a matter of fact, so we’ll see what that does. We may make a new man.”

  “Oh, there’s only so much thinking to do, isn’t there?” Gerry said ruefully.

  “Poppycock. Okay, be anti-authority, fine, while you can. Gather your flowers. Just as long as there’s somebody else to get the jobs done and take the heat. A few more years and you’ll be having to do it yourself, won’t you, or it won’t be done? You don’t really want eightballs running around loose any more than I do. You’ll recognize that. You’ll have to face the fact that there is a group of unsavory souls who do best out of circulation.—Sergeant Washburn! Ser-geant Wash-born? I want you!” he called, a hog call, his naturally soft voice cracking.

  Gerry was surprised at how decided he felt. A complaint, in theory, should be addressed to the Inspector General, but the I.G. here was just a major, without reputation, besides which he had no wish to blemish the colonel’s official record. Treachery enough was involved in any event, because he was still a favorite despite the close scrapes. Maybe all along he’d been treacherous to one person or another in keeping his mouth shut so much. Mad as the idea was, he realized that he was going to go ahead with it and that he wouldn’t be thinking it out any further. He could write the Commanding General, not an enemy of Wetthall’s, whose action, if any, would be unofficial. Although the general was unlikely to act, after two years here it struck Gerry as appropriate before he left to express, as it were, one suggestion. He delayed a few days and then sat down and drafted carefully.

  Commanding General

  Headquarters

  U.S. Grant Army Medical Center

  Firegap, Pennsylvania

  3623 Med. Detachment

  USGAMC, Firegap, Penn.

  17 May 1961

  Dear Sir:

  I will try to write to you as straightforwardly as I can, not knowing the exact proper form of address, to tell you of something that disturbs me. I have been stationed here, working in the Pathology Section, for twenty months, since completion of training at Fort Sam Houston. It may possibly be that the fact that I will be entering law school in the fall has caused me to take particular notice of the operation of the court-martial and psycho-medical unsuitability Boards. At any rate, I have been very interested and have found I approved of the quality of military justice as I have glimpsed it. Indeed, I am far less critical of the Army as a whole than draftees are generally pictured as being, and, without saying that I am not ready to leave, I have had no meaningful criticisms to make of it as an institution. It is an idealized institution, which can hardly be faulted except where human error comes in. The investigation and trial of court-martial offenses is an example, because, unlike the civilian system by which a man is tried if there are reasonable grounds for suspecting he may have committed a crime, in the Army he will never be brought to trial to begin with unless a comparatively exhaustive investigation has shown it is practically certain that he did commit the crime charged. Much more conclusive proof is expected in the investigative period; and the hearing, as well as an opportunity for him to challenge and counter the evidence, becomes a time when a group of outside officers go over the evidence once again and the process by which it was gathered in a thorough manner. They are administrators and it is a system set up for administrators. The prisoner is innocent until proven guilty, but he is not put on trial until he has virtually been proven guilty, so there is not nearly the need for professional legal men, whom the Army of course could not provide in its countless outposts, as there is in the civilian court system.

  I am sorry to be long-winded, but I want to show that my interest has been sincere. The Chief of my Section, Lt. Col. Wetthall, is Chairman of the Court-martial Board at present and also sits on the other Board. I have been working in close, daily contact with him all this while, often with what should only be called friendship, and have been treated fairly by him. What is bothering me is that he seems to have a cruel streak which sometimes affects him very powerfully, a sadistic streak, if you wish—this is difficult to put. Nothing of this has been applied against me, I have only observed it from the sidelines, and he is not responsible for it, it goes without saying. Nor does it affect his excellent medical work. I am trying to say what I have to say without being impertinent or offensive. Since I know that he enjoys friendly relations with you, and seeking also to avoid harmful red tape, I have written to you about it instead of to somebody else. I believe he takes pleasure in the fright and fear of persons under examination, also in sentencing. From his stories, I am certain of this. I have seen and heard it again and again in the past months, and I cannot see how this can help but eventually affect his decisions in such respects as length of sentence or the actual conduct of the hearing itself. I simply would hope that he would not be placed on these Boards anymore, not that his professional duties would be affected in any way. I hope you can see in what limited ways I have been disturbed. Thank you for allowing me to write to you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Gerald Schuyler,

  Pfc., US51462023

  Showing the letter to no one, he typed it, held onto it overnight to read again, and delivered it by hand in the course of his rounds the next morning. He hoped that at least the adjutant would be the one to open it first and that the two typist privates at Headquarters Section never saw it at all. He was exhilarated at breakfast, breathing as if he had just won a race. As lengthy as the letter needed to be, coming from him to a general, he had sidestepped saying several things. He had been both clever and honest, he thought, and if any of the general’s own observations corresponded to what he had said, it would bring unobtrusive results.

  Then he began to go sick. He snuck off to his rooms at the morgue as if he were poisoned, hardly able to breathe, he was so anxious. Now he was caught in the gears. Now he’d be mashed. The letter must have already been opened; he couldn’t retrieve it. He stared through the bars on the windows. For his whole life he had been a lucky fool, trusting his luck, proud of his impulsiveness. He thought of the letters to friends, written off the top of his head, which had hurt them. All at once now he would have to pay—in the army, of all insane places. The Commanding General, a man he had never seen and knew nothing about except that the colonel liked him! Brine-green, he leaned on a stretcher and groaned. He wouldn’t be called a crackpot and let off. That was only in civil life. You were accountable here—you were run up the flagpole. Oh, good blessed Christ!

  In the late afternoon Sgt. Reynolds phoned. “Where you been, Schuyler, sleeping? You’re supposed to appear every once in a while, you know. We like your smiles. We like to see you. The colonel wants you.”

  The colonel, when he knocked and went in, looked almost sicker than he. And Gerry saw instantly that their friendship was ended. As if he were already discharged and home, he realized how fond of the colonel he had been, how much touched by him, with his lonesome “cultural” weekends, his wide open eyes, and mild, inconclusive, highbrowed expression. Once when the corridors had been stacked with flu patients on litters and the civilian workers went off duty at five as though on an ordinary day, the colonel had turned gray and shaky, but not crumpled like this. He looked like he’d gained fifteen pounds in unhealthy places. He gazed in sagging impersonality at Gerry’s middle, not telling him to sit down.

  “Perhaps we can discuss this letter you’ve written. Do you have a copy? You kept no copy? Very well, we’ll read mine. You’re trembling, do you know that? Your hands are trembling. Someday you may look back from a comfortable distance and think you were quixotic in your twenties—you were a half-baked, nice, idealistic young man with a certain amount of guts, and you’ll find it a
n attractive picture, you’ll think it was good to be at that age. But I think you’ll be wrong. I think you’re what you people call a fink. The old-fashioned way to say it is that there are good men and bad men in the world and both of them pretty well stay the way they start out in regard to that feature, whatever else happens to them. So I don’t envy you. You have a long life ahead of you, and you may be able to fool yourself or even respect yourself but you won’t be able to trust yourself. You’ve got a little wild man’s hell to live in. It will be like having a robber working for you who you can’t get rid of. You’ll never know what you’re going to do next.”

  They could hear each other breathing. Wetthall looked at the letter, and Gerry trembled from the immense collapse of his fear. He crossed his arms and squeezed his breath in. In his life he had never been so unspeakably sorry. As soon as he’d found out the colonel would be the one to decide what to do with him, he had stopped being afraid!

  “We’ve been glad to have your ideas on the court-martial system. ‘. . . have found I approved of the quality of military justice as I have glimpsed it. . . . Indeed, I am far less critical of the Army as a whole . . . can hardly be faulted . . .’ When is your release date?”

  “June thirtieth.”

  “We won’t ask you to start to say sir after all these months. June thirtieth is a fiscal-year release. When would your release be if we decided to keep you on?”

  “July eighteenth, sir.”

  “That sounds like a long wait, doesn’t it? We don’t want that. As I say, you don’t need to sir me. After two years of not saying sir, we don’t want to strain you by expecting it now.”

  Holding his chin in his hands, he was blowing air into his cheeks and pinching it out, not finding it possible to look above Gerry’s neck.

  “Tell me something. You write here, ‘I believe he takes pleasure in the fright and fear of persons under examination, also in sentencing. From his stories, I am certain of this. I have seen and heard it again and again,’ et cetera. ‘I simply would hope that he would not be placed on these Boards anymore, not that his professional duties would be affected in any way.’ You are scrupulous, aren’t you? ‘. . . Thank you for allowing me to write to you.’ Has he allowed you to write him?”

  “No sir.”

  “Am I getting pleasure from your fright at this moment?”

  “No sir.”

  “How do I look?”

  “You look unhappy, sir. You look upset.”

  “I guess I look like you look. You look very unhappy, my friend; you look like a sorry specimen. Do you know that, besides the dirtiest, most sudden thing that anyone has ever done to me, this is a punishable offense?”

  “I—not at the time, sir. I guess so, sir.”

  “Why is it? No, I take that back, I don’t want to bully you. The answer is that this letter should have been shown to me before it was submitted anywhere and then it should have been submitted to Captain Bone, who, if he could not act on it himself, would have sent it on up to the next man, and so on to the Commander. But tell me—this is not, I think, an unfair question—why did you not give it to Captain Bone, because I think you more or less knew—was it because you didn’t want Captain Bone to know that I have been boasting to my private soldiers that I was invited to the general’s house and his wife’s for tea, and telling my soldiers the outcome of the various cases I try—only the general himself, instead? Or was it so you wouldn’t get skinned?”

  Gerry had a wild blush.

  “Why you people don’t think anybody but a captain can skin you I don’t know, because they can. You think they’re gentlemen like you in the ranks above captain, don’t you? You think they wouldn’t have attained that high rank if they weren’t gentlemen like you.”

  Humping his chair to face the side wall, he chuckled, clearing his throat. He looked sideways at Gerry. “I lead an innocuous life, I assure you. I talk too much. I’m a snob.”

  Gerry was trying to answer his accusation, but couldn’t get hold of the faintest clue as to what he himself had had in his mind.

  “And you wanted to be dramatic—go straight to the top rung, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you sit down, since we’re old friends?”

  Gerry mentioned having considered the I.G.

  “The I.G. is a kind of a toy. You frighten them if you go to them.” Worn out, he rubbed his eyes. “I think people should see their letters again. They’re not to be sent just fluttering off. You’re a lawyer, and captains are small fry to you. I’ll tell you, if you were a lawyer you would be finished after this; you could start somewhere as an accountant if you were lucky—I’m trembling now. You’re not and I am.”

  He stopped and watched curiously, while Gerry, half blacking out in mortification, tried to cut himself off from the crazy man who had written this ignominious letter.

  “Tell me again—here I’m forgetting how bad it is—what did you think the general would do? Could you imagine him doing anything other than sending it down to me?”

  “No, I can’t. I’m afraid I didn’t follow it out.”

  “Of course that’s the easiest, to leave it up to the fates. I’ll tell you what’s been proven, that I’ve pampered and shielded a smarty sneak. Has anybody ever surprised you so much?” He laughed, better able to look at Gerry. “Anyhow, to get on with this, you say, ‘It may possibly be that the fact that I will be entering law school in the fall . . .’ That’s just in case he doesn’t realize? ‘. . . the Chief of my Section, Lt. Col. Wetthall. . . . What is bothering me is that he seems to have a cruel streak, if you wish—this is difficult to put. . . . he is not responsible for it, it goes without saying. Nor does it affect his excellent medical work.’

  “So that’s the meat, is it?” he asked after a silence, with a suddenly gay, strong voice. He straightened and pulled his chair up to the table in a soldierly fashion, like a scrappy runt of a field officer with a freckled bald head. “I’m not a man to push to the brink, you know.”

  “Sir, I can see that I had nothing to go on except guesswork and the way it’s put is very, very foolish and inexcusable.”

  “Yes, it’s difficult to put. Do you know how you tell a sadist?”

  Gerry shook his head.

  “A sadist is pretty likely to be the person who talks about sadism a lot and notices it in other people—knows all about who is a sadist and rings the alarm bell, very excited. Or another type is quite different. He’s someone who is extremely kind and exceedingly gentle, who can almost, you might say, be counted upon to do the kindest thing when he is in a position of power and when it actually comes down to the point of doing anything. This might not remain the case forever, but if you supposed that I was a sadist, for instance, and from knowing me well, as you say, you knew I would probably be leaving the army within a couple of years and that these board duties rotate, besides, and any and all decisions are passed up to the Commander for confirmation,”—he took a deep, jerky breath and slapped the letter—” you might get an A, my friend, if you concluded that the sentences for these couple of years were going to remain just as lenient as the Commander was going to allow.”

  He waited.

  “Nothing to say? Young man, I want you to keep out of my vicinity as much as you can between now and the end of the fiscal year. I’ve told you how I don’t envy you. I’m going to tell Reynolds to give you more work than you’ve had, because you’ve gotten away with murder in the past year. And I want to hear one thing more, if it’s not tormenting you. Why is it that I’m not charging you? Do you think this letter won’t be talked about because I’m not? Or am I afraid you’ll think you were right and that I’m a sadist if I do?”

  “Sir, I’m sorry, I’m very—”

  “Get out of here, you’re dirt to me,” he said, in the grand, army style.

  • • •

  The purged self-possession the colonel finished with lasted for several days before his muddy qualities caught up with him agai
n, although he didn’t single people out as much. Gerry went around with runny bowels and dizzy spells, digesting the scene. At moments he still believed he’d done the decent thing; the alteration in the colonel seemed to prove it. He thought he’d stuck his neck out when most people would not have cared. Besides, it might have been the adjutant who’d read the letter, not the general, which would provide another reason for Wetthall to drop the matter. When reviewed, the incidents that had aroused him continued to, but he realized the colonel hadn’t wanted to crush him despite feeling betrayed and that he had oversimplified and been too swift and cavalier about risking someone’s career. The memory stung. Sometimes he thought the colonel’s predictions were true, because he could relate a bunch of half-cocked blunders of his that went way back and could conjure up a future of ever savager impulses and narrower escapes.

  In June he grew almost teary; whole weeks were bathed in nostalgia, a process he had watched as other people’s discharges approached. Now it was his turn and, though he hardly spoke with the new transferees, with anybody else who had been around for more than six months, he stopped along the corridors and talked, leaning an elbow on the wall. His days were spent in being congratulated, being asked how he was feeling. As if pregnant, he shared the news. He grinned down gently at his “whites,” like an ethnologist, and tolerantly stood reveille, his sleeping limbs slumped into the regulation posture. When he attended Troop Information lectures, he’d known two officers before the present one and his impatience was gangrenous. He was as tender toward himself as a man healing after injuries, unwinding the bandages and wondering that he has survived.

  To ceremonialize the two-week mark, he and Fallon and Pvt. Babs held a candlelight party in the morgue. They decided that they couldn’t invite newcomers, finally, and sat with wine and pastries as a party of three. The candles were fun, the grinning was fun, although there wasn’t a great deal to say. Fallon was a four-square type, domesticating the table with his elbows until it became a comfortable size, with that heaviness Gerry had gotten fond of. Babs, urchin-like and unyielding as ever, had never accepted either his view of her or of himself, so he was glad they were free of each other. But he was worried because she had no prospects, no one to help her. He was afraid that, a month or so after he left, she would panic at the civilian plans she had made and reenlist in the army instead. She peppered out tight little jokes about the world outside, and Fallon told how the baseballs rained down in July in Claremont Park, so that you gripped your head. Gerry didn’t say much, conscious of the flashier program which awaited him.