by Howard Fast
At that moment General Kempton’s car, driven by Sergeant Candyman, drew up. Kempton got out, followed by two of his staff officers, whom he introduced to Barney Adams.
“What do you think, Barney?” the general asked.
Adams shrugged. “I’ve done what I can. Now we’ll see.”
Half a dozen correspondents were already waiting as they entered the building. They surrounded the general’s party, pleading for a break.
“Gentlemen, when have I ever refused to give you a break?”
“General, let us cover it on the inside.”
Barney Adams realized that Kempton was not as unruffled as he appeared to be. His face flushed as he snapped, “No! I won’t even discuss that! You know it’s impossible!”
Past the reporters, Adams saw Bender and Moscow talking to a thin, dyspeptic man who carried a briefcase under his arm. Bender caught his eye, and Adams walked over to them.
“Good morning, sir,” Moscow said. “This is Trial Judge Advocate, Major Smith. Captain Adams, sir.”
Major Smith accepted Adams tolerantly. “I hear you’re going to make a good show of it, Captain.”
“I hope to try.”
“Good. It wouldn’t do to just hang the poor devil.”
“No, it wouldn’t do at all, sir.”
“Well, see you in the trenches,” Smith said, taking off toward the reporters.
Bender whispered, “My Aunt Sadie—see you in the trenches! See what I mean, sir?”
One of the correspondents approached Adams. He recognized the Associated Press man who had been in Kempton’s office. The correspondent wanted to know about the rumor that Adams would plead Winston’s insanity.
“You know I can’t divulge my plans.”
“Let a word drop. Give us a lead.”
Shaking his head, Kempton pushed between them, hooked his arm in Adams’, and led him away.
“Come in here a moment, Barney,” the general said, opening one of two tall white doors that faced the entrance hall. Adams followed, and the general closed the door behind them. They were in the court now, a room forty feet long and twenty-five feet wide, with six high windows facing them. Fans on the ceiling turned lazily. A long table of polished mahogany stretched full twenty feet, with ten chairs placed behind it. At either end, a smaller table was set at right angles, much as the diagram had depicted.
“Nice room, isn’t it,” the general observed, his mind obviously elsewhere.
“Very nice, sir.”
“Barney,” he said suddenly, “how far are you going to push this case?”
“To a point where I win it, sir.”
“And you still think you can win?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I have a tough case here, but I think I also have a good case.”
“The only case you have is an insanity plea.”
“If Winston was insane when he murdered Quinn, then he is not guilty—is he, sir?”
“Let the court decide, Barney. You haven’t the chance of a snowball in hell of proving insanity, and you know it.”
“You may be right, sir.”
“Oh, damn it all,” the general said, putting his arm on Adams’ shoulder, “why am I snapping at you, Barney? I brought you into this. All I want you to remember is that we are only interested in establishing a record that cannot be questioned. The man is a murderer. There’s no doubt of that.” The general spread his hands now. “You have no obligation to save his life, Barney—your only obligation is to defend him, to give him the use of guarantees provided by military justice.”
“That is what I intend to do, sir.”
“I wonder? Look, Barney, I’m going to level with you. The British Command here asked to be present. I had no alternative except to invite them. Then the Assistant to the Home Secretary in London decided to fly in quietly and take me by surprise. Of course, I had to invite him too. You’d think with the way they’ve been pasted by bombs and with all their headaches in Italy that they would hardly be able to or want to stick their noses into this affair, but evidently this is in their tradition, and Winston and Quinn rate high there. A British M.P. comes down from the north at the same time—another guest. Now the U.S. Consul General here tells me that he would like to be present. I can’t admit the British fellow and keep him out. So aside from myself and two staff members, we’re going to have three civilians and six British brass—that’s what those chairs at the end of the room are for.
“Now, Barney, I want you to know this.”
“Thank you, sir. But it makes no difference as far as I am concerned.”
“Doesn’t it, Barney? How plain must I be?”
“Are you trying to tell me, sir—”
“Let’s leave that unsaid,” the general replied firmly. “I am advising nothing. I am telling you what the situation is. Do you understand me, Barney?”
“I think I understand you, sir,” Barney Adams replied.
Monday 9.40 A.M.
As Major Smith rose to make his opening statement, Barney Adams looked around the court and felt his pulse quicken and his throat tighten. For him, the court of military law was not simply and merely the judicial process of the armed forces; it was the leaven of civilization thrust tentatively into that ancient instrument of death and destruction, the soldiery. It was the paradox out of which man’s hope creeps and explores. It was also the arena in which he had chosen to play out a life which, beyond any possibility of youthful choice, was destined to be military.
He could not have wholly expressed how deeply the court moved him, the ten senior officers sitting sternly behind the long mahogany table, the prosecution at one end of the table, the defense at the other, the military policemen in all their dress-uniform show guarding the doors, the guests seated at the other end of the long room, among them a Scots officer in kilt and plaid, the flags banked between the high windows, the witnesses at the opposite end of the room, and the hot morning sunlight fighting through the crevices of the blinds.
He felt content and at peace with himself for the first time in many days.
“—and the Trial Judge Advocate will prove,” Major Smith was saying, “that Charles Winston, Lieutenant in the Army of the United States, planned this murder deliberately, proceeded to it with forethought, and committed it while in full possession of all his faculties—”
Adams turned to look at Winston. The defendant sat slumped in his chair, examining the back of his fingernails, either indifferent to or unaware of what was happening around him. He expressed neither joy nor sorrow, nor was his skinny figure, clad in loose and faded fatigues, evocative of hatred or sympathy. It was almost as if he alone, the defendant, were not present, but only a word, a definition, a shadow of himself.
Colonel Thompson said, “Captain Adams, do you desire to make an opening statement?”
Adams rose. “If the court please, I have no opening statement to make. But if the court will hear me, I would like to make a request at this point.”
“The court will hear you, sir.”
“Then I would respectfully request that all witnesses except the witness whose testimony is being taken, be excluded from the courtroom. And that witnesses be called only to testify.”
Colonel Thompson turned to Colonel Mayburt, the Law Officer seated on his left. In appearance at least, Mayburt was all that Bender and Moscow had described, a gravely handsome man, erect and alert.
“It appears to be a reasonable request, Captain Adams. Unless Major Smith has convincing reasons for desiring the witnesses to be present, the court will grant it.”
Colonel Mayburt nodded at Smith, who rose and said, “May the court please, it would seem to me, sir, that my witnesses have every right to be present. They should certainly be kept aware of the progress of testimony.”
Adams noticed that Coombs was whispering furiously to Wells, who shook his head. Coombs looked less than his twenty-two years. As assistant to Smith, he was already beginning to writhe with impatience, a small, boyish figure
who had not yet learned to exercise patience toward insensitivity or stupidity.
“Witnesses have no right to be present, Major Smith. Their presence can only be at the court’s dispensation,” Thompson said. “What is your feeling, Colonel Mayburt?”
“I would be inclined for the court to exclude witnesses. Captain Adams has been more than reasonable in his waiver of challenges, and this is his first request.”
“The court agrees to your request, Captain Adams,” Colonel Thompson said. “The military police will escort the witnesses to the witness room. Captain O’Hara?” addressing the MP officer who stood behind the guests. “Will you see to it that the witnesses are not disturbed and that their comfort is provided for?”
Adams sat down and Bender whispered to him, “Oh, fine, sir. I am beginning to see what you mean.”
“Just look at Morty Coombs,” Moscow said.
Coombs was trying to talk to Smith, who shook his head impatiently.
Monday 10.30 A.M.
Sergeant Albert Johnson was the first witness for the prosecution. Before the court convened, he had mentioned to Adams that it was an unexpected treat to get away from Bachree outside of his regular leave. He said that the nice thing about Bachree was that wherever else you found yourself, it was an improvement.
At half-past ten, Major Smith had finished his examination of Johnson, who was an excellent witness. He had good recall and a precise manner of expressing detail. He had told the story of the murder, presenting the same facts that Major Kensington had given to Adams. He did not color them, nor did any sense of self-importance lead him to dramatize the facts out of proportion. He was one of those dry, self-contained Englishmen who seem to be utterly unshakable.
Major Smith appeared to be pleased with both himself and his witness as he sat down. Colonel Thompson turned to Barney Adams and asked whether he would cross-examine.
“If it please the court?” Adams replied, rising and going around to his end of the triple table. He passed behind Winston, who continued to sit in silence and indifference; and confronting Johnson, he realized that this was the first time, after so many years of study and preparation, that he was actually facing a witness in a military courtroom.
“You may proceed,” Thompson directed.
“Sergeant Johnson,” Adams said, “have you had any combat experience?”
“Yes, sir. Against the Japs in Burma, the defense of Rangoon and then the retreat.”
“Were you a rifleman, machine gunner, mortar?”
“Rifleman, sir.”
“What is your experience with side arms?”
“I have used them, sir. My lieutenant was killed, and we had to leave his body. I took his revolver and ammunition, and used it until the ammunition was gone.”
“And then? What did you do with it?”
“I threw it into a supply lorry, sir.”
“You made no attempt to replenish the ammunition?”
Both Wells and Coombs had scribbled notes to Major Smith, who rose at this point and entered an objection.
“If the court please,” Smith said indignantly, “this is cross-examination. I can’t conceivably see what this line of questioning has to do with the direct examination.”
Thompson looked questioningly at Colonel Mayburt, who said, “Captain Adams, do you intend a connection between this line of questioning and the direct examination?”
“I do, sir,” Adams answered. “Also, if the court please, I have not called Sergeant Johnson as my witness. If I am allowed a certain amount of latitude—toward a connection, of course—I will not have to call him and can thereby save the court considerable time.”
As he spoke, Colonel Mayburt wrote on a pad, which he passed to Thompson. Thompson read it, glanced at Mayburt, swallowed and said to Major Smith: “The court is fully aware of the laws of evidence, Major. It is commendable to object to a line of questioning that may appear to be improper—but perhaps the objection should be withheld until the direction is fully apparent. In that manner, we will expedite the progress of this trial.” And then to Adams, “Please proceed, Captain—and to the point.”
“Shall I repeat the question?” Adams asked Johnson.
“No, sir, I remember it. I made no attempt to replenish my ammunition.”
“Why?”
“Because I consider a pistol or a revolver an inferior weapon. Accuracy beyond a few dozen feet is almost impossible. It cannot be properly aimed except under the best circumstances, and any attempt at rapid fire renders it worthless except as a source of noise.”
His description of side arms brought smiles throughout the room. Adams saw Bender nudge Moscow and whisper to him.
“What is your own weapon at Bachree?” Adams asked.
“American carbine, sir.”
“Oh? Not a British weapon?”
“We have a mixed complement at Bachree, sir. Our weapons are American issue. The carbine is a fine weapon.”
“Now, Sergeant—I am fully aware that under “stress, and not fully awake, a man cannot properly count shots. So I am prepared to accept your statement that you did not know whether Lieutenant Winston’s pistol was empty. But you were aware that he was armed only with a pistol?”
“Yes, sir, I was.”
“Could he have obtained a rifle or a carbine?”
“No, sir, he could not. All weapons” except his own pistol were kept in the barracks. Once he left the barracks, he could not obtain a rifle at Bachree.”
“Yet you testified, Sergeant Johnson, that after you saw Lieutenant Winston kill Sergeant Quinn, you watched him back out of the barracks door. He held his gun on you. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You also testified that your next action was to send someone to phone Major Kensington. Then you ordered the men in the barracks to get dressed. Not until they were fully dressed, did you allow the search for Lieutenant Winston to proceed?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“How much time had elapsed by then?”
“I can’t say for certain, sir. At least fifteen minutes.”
“In other words, you deliberately allowed fifteen minutes to elapse before going after a murderer. Was it because of his pistol, Sergeant? You have already given your opinion of the pistol as a weapon. Was it because of that?”
“No, sir—” For the first time, Johnson hesitated momentarily before replying. “No, sir,” he repeated, “not because of the pistol.”
“Yet you testified that you were uncertain of whether or not he was armed with a loaded weapon?”
“Yes, sir, I did. But I was not asked why I did not go after Lieutenant Winston immediately.”
Major Smith rose to anticipate the next question with an objection, but Adams put it aside unspoken and, instead of inquiring why Johnson had not done so, asked, “When you did go after Lieutenant Winston, how many men did you take with you?”
“All of them, sir, except for one man I sent to wait for Major Kensington at the road junction. We have a very small complement at Bachree, a dozen men with myself.”
“And did you issue arms to all the men?”
Again Sergeant Johnson hesitated. Then, his former briskness and alertness gone, he slowly replied, “No, sir, I did not.”
“With an armed murderer loose on the installation, you did not order a general issue of arms?”
“No, sir. I did not.”
“Did you issue any arms?”
“Yes, sir. Corporal Goldman and I took our carbines.”
“Please identify Corporal Goldman?”
“United States Army, Quartermaster, sir. After Lieutenant Winston’s action and Sergeant Quinn’s death, he was the ranking non-commissioned officer after myself.”
“Sergeant Johnson, will you please tell the court why you issued only two carbines.”
Both Coombs and Wells had been passing notes to Major Smith, who now rose and offered his objection.
“On what grounds, sir?” Colonel T
hompson asked.
“May it please the court, this is not proper cross-examination. Sergeant Johnson did not testify on these matters.”
Thompson looked at Mayburt, who said, “It would appear to me, Major Smith, that the connection is obvious. You took testimony on all the incidents of that night. The cross-examination would hardly be worth while if it did not elicit information absent in the direct examination. It is true that we follow federal court procedure to a large extent. But since this is not trial by civilian jury, we welcome the introduction of factual matter—so long as the general laws of evidence are observed.”
He said this patiently and not unkindly, yet Major Smith recognized the blow and seated himself morosely.
Bender whispered to Moscow, “Morty Coombs must have guessed what’s coming, but so help me, Thompson doesn’t know. Look at him beaming on the captain.”
Adams caught Moscow’s eye and stopped the whispering. “You will answer the question, Sergeant,” Thompson said.
“I issued only two carbines,” Johnson stated slowly, “because I was afraid that men who had just seen a murder done might not hesitate to kill the murderer.”
“You had also seen the murder done, as you testified, Sergeant Johnson. Did you have no desire to kill the murderer?”
“I did not.”
“Out of solicitude for Lieutenant Winston.”
“No, sir.”
“Did you like Lieutenant Winston?”
“I did not like him.”
“Yet, knowing he was armed with a pistol and knowing he was a murderer, you took pains to protect him?”
“Yes, sir—I suppose you could look at it that way.”
“How did you look at it, Sergeant? Differently?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then please tell the court how you looked at it, Sergeant. Please explain your reasons for delay and for arming only two men.”
Major Smith rose with more confidence now. “May it please the court, I must object to this line of questioning. Sergeant Johnson is not on trial for negligence. If such an inquiry is to be made, it is a matter for the British Command.”
“The court will have to sustain this objection, Captain Adams,” Thompson said. “Unless you can show that this is vital to the matter at hand.”
