by Howard Fast
Adams nodded.
“They mix in the same man. Hitler and Mussolini are the two most notorious paranoiacs of our time—but before he had power, Hitler was a pleader and a whiner.”
“Would you call them insane?”
Kaufman thought about this for a moment, then shook his head. “No—not in the sense that Winston is insane. You could say that Hitler and Mussolini are insane in a social sense not in a clinical sense. In Winston’s case, there is a qualitative change that has taken place. From what Winston was able to tell me, there were no memories that did not suggest paranoia. I say suggest, because there was less than a week in which I could examine him. He had an unhappy, lonely childhood. He married a woman who terrified him, a woman he hates and fears, and with whom he has not had intercourse for sixteen years. His three sons apparently treat him with a mixture of contempt and pity. He feared them and envied them, and tried to prove himself and defend himself with this commission. In the warehouse where he worked, he was a petty tyrant—but he lived in day-to-day fear of being fired. After Pearl Harbor, he began to create a daydream, a fantasy of winning the war singlehanded, through his own talent and personality. At first, it was only a fantasy.”
“In other words, at this point he was not insane.”
“By no means insane. He was a neurotic, an intensely disturbed man with a paranoid personality, but he was not psychotic.”
“Could you have recognized the possibility of insanity if you had examined him then, Major?”
“I don’t know. I would like to think that I could have, but I don’t know.”
“Was the insanity inevitable?” Adams asked.
“I don’t know that either. In Winston’s case, I would think so, but I can’t be sure.”
“Major Kensington, the British medical officer at Bachree, told me that there was no doubt in his mind but that Winston was insane before the murder.”
“If I may ask, Captain, where did you see Kensington?”
“I went to Bachree yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“Would you agree with Major Kensington?”
“Of course. It is not the act of murder that precipitates the psychotic state. It is the psychotic condition—in Winston’s case—that precipitates the murder.”
“Would you have any opinion on when Winston actually became insane?”
“Only a guess—and in a case like this, there is no actual moment that you can point to and say, It happened then. The process is gradual, slow at first, and then increasingly rapid to its conclusion. In Winston’s case, I would guess that his fantasy of winning the war, or at least being a person of very great importance in the army, absorbed him increasingly. When it ceased to be fantasy—as Winston saw it—I cannot possibly say. At any rate, from what he told me, he schemed, connived, lied and exercised a remarkable amount of shrewdness to get his commission. After that, he began increasingly to think of himself as put upon, plotted against, and deliberately thwarted. He began to erect in his own mind the delusional structure of a vast plot, with himself as the central object. At Bachree, a pattern of latent homosexuality—by no means unusual in paranoiacs—focused on Quinn, who was a homosexual, without any question. But Quinn was not entranced by this skinny, half-mad, middle-aged man, and he used him opportunistically and sadistically. Sooner or later, the numberless amorphous persecutions that Winston believed in had to become symbolized in Quinn. At the same time, Quinn had begun to destroy Winston’s defenses. When that happened, Winston killed Quinn. It was cheap, tawdry and brutal. Yet it was inevitable.”
There were a few moments of silence now. Kaufman looked at his watch.
Adams was absorbed in his own thoughts; as from a distance, he asked, “Where does the notion of God come into it?”
“God? Oh yes—you told me. As a matter of fact, it frequently appears in the pathological stage. The paranoiac believes that God is in some part of his body, God is with him, literally—a sense of burning, severe pain sometimes. It’s a symptom of the rapid personality decay.”
“How rapid, Major?”
“In Winston’s case? Two or three months perhaps. He is already in deep depression. In the outside world, he would kill himself. In his cell, I doubt it—it would require too much energy and imagination, and I think he is past the stage where he could summon that. His depression will deepen, however; he will lose all will to eat or sleep or see or react. He will retreat into himself, and in not too long a time, he will die. These are speculations, of course—no more.” He looked at his watch again. “I’m afraid I must go on my rounds, Captain. If you want to wait here until noon, we can have lunch together.”
“I’ll gladly wait. Do you have something I can read meanwhile—a text of some sort?”
Kaufman took three books out of a case on one side of his office, and opened each to a chapter which he marked with a bit of paper. “I wish I had more here, but I don’t. There is a classic essay by Freud, but I don’t have it here. These are case histories, and they will help you to understand the process. Two are textbooks. The third is Plutarch’s Lives, and I think it would interest you to reread his chapter on Alexander the Great. I presume you have read it?”
“In school. That was many years ago.”
“Read it again. To my mind, it is the finest literary description of a paranoiac that we have, very clear and very penetrating. It may help you more than the case histories.”
He left Adams there with the books.
Friday 10.50 A.M.
A rather handsome woman, but one whose face was drawn tight with her own difficulties and tensions, entered Major Kaufman’s office and said, “Pardon me, Captain Adams. There is a call for you from Headquarters. I wasn’t sure that you were at the hospital, but the nurse on duty thought you hadn’t left.”
The book open in his lap, Adams looked at her curiously—aware of how very few American women there were in this entire area, how few he had seen. Was this the first one who had spoken to him, he wondered? He stared at her, and hunger and longing awoke in him. In her nurse’s uniform, she was prim and neat and attractive.
“Yes, I’m still here,” he replied awkwardly. “I’m waiting for Major Kaufman to return.”
“You’re from the Judge Advocate, aren’t you, Captain?”
He nodded.
“Why can’t you leave Major Kaufman alone?” Her controlled anger brought two spots of red to her cheeks. “Hasn’t he had enough out of this miserable Winston affair? Why must he be hounded?”
Dumfounded, Barney Adams sought for something to say and found nothing very pointed, except the lame protest that he was not hounding Major Kaufman.
The nurse picked up the telephone on the desk and said, “Give me that call for Captain Adams, Kelly.” Then she put the telephone down and stalked out, slamming the door behind her. Adams picked up the phone, and heard General Kempton’s voice.
“How are you, Barney?” he demanded cheerfully.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You’re not letting this get you down, are you?”
“Oh, no,” Adams replied. “Not at all. I’m enjoying this, sir. I’m having a fine time.”
“That’s no way to take it, Barney,” the general said com fortingly. “Just walk through it. Now look. The correspondents here have been pushing me. They want to meet you. I can’t blame them—the Winston affair is a big story, and they know about you and you make good copy.”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather not,” Adams said.
“Sure, I know how you feel, Barney. I’d think less of you if you said, Hurray—I want publicity. Every two-bit punk around here wants his name in the papers at home. It’s not admirable. But in this case I can’t give you an out. I’m afraid you must be there.”
Adams held the phone in silence until the general asked, “Barney? Are you still there?”
“Yes, sir. Where will it be?”
“At my office. Three o’clock. Is that all right?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, sir.”
“Now, Barney—I don’t want you to feel that I’m pushing you around, because I am not. Have I interfered with you in any way, tried to direct you, guide you, turn you away from anything?”
“No, sir, you haven’t.”
“I admit I pressed you to see Winston, but that was only because I want a dear and unimpeachable record. I was a little nervous. Well, you were doing things your way—and I’m leaving you alone. But this press conference is one of the stinking necessities of modern warfare, and I can no more avoid it than yourself.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I’m glad you do, Barney. I’ll see you later.”
Friday 12.10 P. M.
“We can offer you hamburger,” Major Kaufman said. “They allow a few very old cows to be slaughtered for the hospital menu. But the only way to make them edible is to grind every bit of meat and to kill the taste with whatever spices we have on hand. Sometimes it comes out surprisingly good, sometimes not so good.”
“Whatever you have,” Adams replied, still lost in the hatred and bloodshed and lust and megalomania of a young Macedonian madman. He had discovered, when he began to read, that he had forgotten Plutarch, as one usually forgets the forced learning of youth; and he was pondering the fact that the narration had left him so unmoved then—only to touch him so deeply and profoundly now at a time when he himself was a part of the most devastating armed conflict in man’s memory.
“You don’t care much about food, do you?” Kaufman asked.
“When I’m hungry, I suppose. I don’t have much appetite in this heat.”
“Does it matter to you what you eat?”
Puzzled, Adams shook his head. “Not very much. Is that a neurosis, Major?”
“With your face, Adams,” the major said, “no one would know whether you were pulling their leg or not—whether you were brilliant or dull, insensitive or sensitive, shrewd or stupid. You could just look at them. You could go through life with that face, Adams, and you could hardly be a failure.”
Controlling himself, trying to guess what had happened to Kaufman during the time he had been gone, Adams answered quietly, “My face is not under consideration, Major. Another time, perhaps, it might make for profitable discussion, but we are both of us pressed for time.”
“I was honest with you, Captain—honest and forthright. You didn’t have to play games.”
“What games?” Barney Adams asked, his voice hardening.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had been to see Colonel Burton?”
“Because I thought you knew.”
“How? I was on leave. I came on duty an hour before you turned up. How would I know?”
“I’m sorry, Major Kaufman. I should have thought of that. I didn’t.”
“Just as you never thought of telling me that the reason you came to me was to obtain a copy of my medical report on the Winston case?”
“Because I thought you knew that too.”
“No—oh, no. It won’t do, Captain.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Adams said. “Please believe me, it was not my intention to confuse you or deceive you. To tell the truth, once we got to talking I forgot all about the report. That’s why I didn’t bring it up.”
“You mean you don’t want it?”
“I’m afraid I do want it,” Adams said. “I must have it.”
Kaufman took a few paces away, stood for some moments with his back to Adams, and then turned and observed Adams darkly and unhappily. “You can’t have it, Captain.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no intention of disobeying the orders of my commanding officer.”
Adams closed the book on his knee, placed it on the desk and rose. Watching the major thoughtfully, he lit a cigarette. There were many things he could say, but he wanted to say the right thing, and as it so often happened, he was by no means certain of what the right thing was. He wanted to understand Kaufman, and he knew that it would not be easy. Here was a chasm he had never attempted to cross before. In all of his formative years, there had been a series of neat and correct bridges which were used to communicate with other people, one set of bridges for one kind of person, another set for another kind, a third set for a third kind. It was like taking a recognition course. You learned what was correct for what, and you used it. But for the past two years the bridge system had operated less and less successfully. Now it was no good at all.
“Are you telling me,” he asked quietly, almost casually, “that Colonel Burton ordered you not to show me or give me a copy of your report on Winston?”
“Let’s say that he advised me not to.”
“I see.” Adams nodded. “Why don’t we sit down and talk about this like two civilized human beings, Major? I never met you before today. You never met me. This morning I behaved foolishly, thoughtlessly—as anyone does who takes for granted a series of premises out of his own head. I think you’re taking the wrong attitude now—if I may say so.”
“You may,” Kaufman replied, “so long as you keep in mind that I can order you out of here, and when I do, you go.”
“It’s not as easy as all that, Major.”
“I think it is.”
“Tell me this, Major,” Adams said, his voice still soft and even, “have you ever had experience with a general court-martial?”
“I have not.”
“I thought not. You see, there is an old saw that an army court is a kangaroo court, a hanging court, a sort of inquisition where a man goes without hope or help. Well, the very nature of military discipline gives rise to that attitude. I suppose it must, for an army trial is trial without jury or superior courts. On the other hand, the army is conscious of this, very conscious, and in an attempt to balance the scales, they have given an extraordinary amount of power and privilege to the defense counsel. There is no document in this theater that I cannot obtain, if it will help me make my case. And there is no officer, including General Kempton, whose presence I cannot demand. You can order me out of here, Major, but I can order you to appear in my presence. And when I ask you questions then, you will answer them because you must. Those are my powers, sir. I have no desire to invoke them. For heaven’s sake, let’s sit down and talk like sensible people.”
“Yes, sensible people,” Kaufman repeated. “Oh, let’s talk politely and calmly. Let’s not raise our voices.”
“Yes—I think it helps not to lose our tempers.”
“Does it, Captain Adams? How does it feel to go through life being polite and charming and unruffled? You’ve been in this ass-hole of creation three days, Captain Adams. Do you know what it feels like to be here three months—or three years? Just what do you know, Captain Adams? What are you after? Would you like to give a memorable court performance—bring expert witnesses in, make a great name and score for yourself?”
“I have to defend Winston as I see fit.”
“Why? Why do you have to defend him? What are you defending? What are you asking me to help you defend? When Burton asked me to rewrite my report on Winston and declare that he was sane,. I refused. I didn’t have to refuse. I could have scribbled a few words to the effect that Winston was sane and of sound mind. It would have changed nothing. Either way, Winston will be condemned to death. But I refused—because I am a physician, a doctor, not a cheap political opportunist. I refused because I could not change that report and remain a physician—and because I know that some day this war will be over and I will be a doctor again. And I knew the price of refusing—make no mistake about that, Captain Adams. I was listed for promotion; there will be no promotion now. I am a psychiatrist at the head of a general hospital section. A few months from today, I’ll be dispensing medicine somewhere out in the jungle. I knew that, and still I refused. And now you ask me to go further—to disobey orders. Tell me why, Captain Adams.”
“Because a man is going to be condemned to death—who should not be condemned to death. That is why.”
“I see
. To save Charles Winston. You want me to help destroy myself to help save Winston. Is that it?”
“If you put it that way—yes, that’s it.”
“Of course. And it makes sense to you, I suppose. Winston, whose twisted life process revolved around a maniacal hatred of Jews, who is a decaying cesspool of every vile chauvinism and hatred ever invented; Winston, who spat in my face and called me a kike and a sheeny—this Winston, whose soul is warped and corroded beyond repair, whose mind is decaying and dying, who is a self-confessed murderer—this is the man you want me to help you save, even at the price of myself. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you have thought this through in your own mind, Captain?”
“I’ve tried. Not entirely. But I seem to have found one thing that I can put my finger on.”
“And what is that?” Kaufman asked coldly.
“That Winston is sick—and that his sickness is the world’s sickness. Is the answer execution, Major Kaufman? Perhaps it is—and perhaps we are executing the world. Is that what you are trying to tell me?”
Kaufman looked at Adams without answering. Then he walked over to his chair and dropped into it. “Give me one of your cigarettes, Captain,” he said.
As Adams lit it for him, Kaufman said, “Let me apologize for what I said about your face, Adams. It was anger, but not altogether pointless. We grow up with the image of that face before us. We learn to love it and to hate it—and to envy it. I suppose I should be mature enough to spill my venom in other directions.”
“It’s not venom.” Adams shrugged.
“Let me decide what it is. We confront each other out of different worlds, Captain.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No? You’re a West Point man, Adams—word of your background gets around. You’re General Adams’ son—and he was staff assistant to Pershing in 1918. They even say that you’re part of the Adams family—”
