by Howard Fast
“Did he appear to be excited?”
“Not at all.”
Smith had turned back to his table, where Coombs passed him a note. He read it, then asked Burton, “Did he appear depressed—that is, Lieutenant Winston?”
“No more than one would expect, considering the circumstances.”
“Then on the basis of your two examinations, Colonel Burton, did you find any indication that Lieutenant Winston was—well—let us say, mentally sick? I believe that is the proper term—mentally sick.”
“I did not.”
“Did you find anything that would lead you to believe—that is, I mean to conclude—that Lieutenant Winston was insane?”
“I did not.”
“Do you believe that such a condition could be present without your being aware of it?”
“No, sir, I do not. I do not wish to plead my competence. I think my position and rank indicate competence.”
“Unquestionably, Colonel Burton. I did not intend to question your competence. Now, having found that Lieutenant Winston was sound of body and mind, what did you do?”
“Knowing that he was a murderer and having been advised by Theater Headquarters that he should stand trial as soon as possible, I suggested to Major Kaufman that he should be immediately discharged.”
“And was he so discharged, Colonel Burton?”
“He was not.”
“Will you tell the court the reasons why? Not any conversations that might have taken place between you and Major Kaufman, but the reason itself.”
“Major Kaufman refused to sign his discharge papers.”
“Did he give a reason why he refused?”
“Yes.” Colonel Burton nodded, smiling slightly, his air one of forgive and forget. “His reason was that Lieutenant Winston was insane.”
With this, almost all eyes in the room turned, with scarcely any conscious volition, upon Winston. But he appeared not to have heard. His face tilted up, smiling slightly, he sat rigid and unmoving.
Colonel Burton and Major Smith were among the exceptions. Neither of them looked at Winston. Major Smith phrased another question.
“Did he have the power to prevent such discharge? Major Kaufman, I mean.”
“Not technically, no. As commanding officer of the hospital, I could have ordered such a discharge. But it is not the procedure we follow. A patient should properly be discharged from the section of the hospital he is treated in—and by the chief of that section.”
“What did you do then, Colonel Burton?”
“I reported this to Headquarters. I was instructed by General Kempton to convene a lunacy commission and examine Lieutenant Winston.”
“Did you or General Kempton suggest the lunacy commission?”
“I did.”
“May I ask why, Colonel?”
“So that the question of Winston’s sanity would be settled once and for all and beyond doubt.”
Colonel Thompson now leaned across the table and said, “The court realizes that giving testimony is a difficult affair, Colonel Burton. Nevertheless, I must ask you to address the defendant by his rank. Until the verdict of this court is rendered, he holds that rank in the United States Army.”
Colonel Burton apologized gracefully, and then Major Smith asked him to explain to the court just what a lunacy commission was.
“A special commission called by the commanding officer above the rank of divisional commander to pass upon questions of sanity and insanity.”
“And who was appointed to this commission?”
“Colonel Joseph Hale and Major Richard Frank, both of them physicians on the hospital staff, and myself.”
“Had the commission a head?”
“I was the chief officer of the commission.”
“Did this lunacy commission examine Lieutenant Winston?”
“It did.”
“On what date?”
“The sixth day after he had been admitted to the hospital.”
“Was this a full and thorough examination?”
“It was.”
“And what were the findings of the lunacy commission, Colonel Burton?”
“The commission found Lieutenant Winston to be sane, both fit and responsible to stand trial.”
“What action did you take in Lieutenant Winston’s case then, Colonel?”
“I signed the order for his discharge. The following morning he was picked up at the hospital by the military police and taken to the Provost.”
“Thank you, Colonel Burton. That will be all.”
With satisfaction, Major Smith turned to Adams and said, “Your witness, Captain Adams.”
Monday 2.12 P.M.
As Barney Adams listened to Colonel Burton’s testimony, he began to realize the full implication of what he proposed to do. Realizing it, he had to confront himself with his reasons; and strangely enough, for the first time, the whole structure and meaning of the Winston affair came into a sort of focus. At first this focus was blurred and uncertain; over the next twenty-four hours it clarified itself and became precise.
While Burton was testifying, Adams passed a note to Moscow—“You are free to disassociate yourself, if you wish to. I think I understand your position.”
The reply read, “I don’t think you do. I’m staying. So is Harvey, so you don’t have to ask him. We talked about it.”
Adams nodded. He had come to like Bender and Moscow a good deal.
At twelve minutes after two, he rose for the cross-examination and said to Colonel Burton, “Colonel, in your testimony you said that four hours passed after Lieutenant Winston was admitted to the hospital—before you heard about it. Is that so?”
“That is right.”
“Did you intend to imply that Major Kaufman deliberately kept the information from you?”
“I have no idea what Major Kaufman intended. I intended to imply nothing except that four hours had passed.”
“Colonel Burton, do you know whether Major Kaufman deliberately withheld the information?”
“Major Kaufman has not been particularly co-operative. There is no reason for me to think that he might not have withheld the information.”
“I am not asking for your reasons to think this or that, Colonel. I am asking whether you know something. Please answer yes or no.”
“I do not know for certain.”
“Thank you, sir. Now, can you tell the court how Captain Greene, your assistant, came to have the information before you did?”
“I am afraid you will have to ask Captain Greene that. I am a busy man, Captain Adams, commanding a large hospital.”
“Again, sir,” Adams said quietly, “I must ask you to answer my question.”
Major Smith then rose and asked the court whether Captain Adams could badger a witness in this fashion.
Thompson turned to Mayburt uncertainly, and Mayburt said: “This is not badgering, Major Smith. Captain Adams is addressing the witness with propriety and within the framework of proper cross-examination. This court is not interested in concealment. I must ask you to be a little more certain of your grounds before you interrupt counsel again.”
And to Burton, he said, “Colonel Burton, you will answer the questions as put.”
“No, I do not know. I may have known at the time—if so, it has passed out of my mind as a matter of no importance.”
“Perhaps we should suspend judgment on whether or not this is important, Colonel Burton. Now I ask you, is it regular procedure at the hospital for the physician in charge of a particular patient to prepare a report on that patient’s condition and progress?”
Colonel Burton tightened his lips and stared straight before him. His cheeks lost color and he blinked rapidly. The seconds passed and he made no reply.
“Please answer my question, sir,” Adams said patiently.
Still Colonel Burton sat in silence. The silence pervaded the room. It hung as heavy as molasses.
Suddenly Major Cummings spoke up, his voice c
utting the silence like a knife, “With your permission, Colonel Thompson, may I ask whether there is any reason why Colonel Burton should not answer that question?”
“Approach the bench, sir,” Thompson said to Adams. Thompson’s voice was hoarse and thick. Adams walked up to where Thompson and Mayburt were sitting. Mayburt was listening and watching with puzzled curiosity and some annoyance as well.
“Captain Adams,” Thompson whispered, “do you intend to go on with this line of questioning?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Are you certain?”
Mayburt broke into the whispered conversation, “I am sorry to have to interfere, Colonel Thompson, but I think this is highly improper.”
“I have said nothing that is improper.”
“This whole approach is improper,” Mayburt whispered angrily. “There is no conceivable reason within my knowledge of law why Burton should not have been directed to answer that question. It was a proper question, and it is not for the court to challenge Captain Adams’ approach.”
“I hardly think this should be discussed here and now.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Mayburt said, still whispering, “I think you invited discussion. I would suggest a brief recess.”
“You may return to your place, Captain Adams,” Thompson said; and then, when Adams had stepped away, he rapped with his gavel and announced, “The court will recess until three o’clock.”
Monday 2.30 P.M.
As they left the court, General Kempton ranged himself alongside of Barney Adams and said, “Suppose we nave a word or two, Barney.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Unless you need this time?”
“I didn’t anticipate the recess, sir, so my time is at your disposal.”
General Kempton led the way to Colonel Thompson’s office at the end of the hallway opposite the courtroom. He closed the door behind them, took a cigarette for himself and then offered one to Adams.
“Smoke?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do you ever swear, Barney?”
“Sir?”
“Lose your temper—let go? Would you derive no satisfaction from just roaring out that this is a shit-ass, lousy, mother-friggen, second-rate sonofabitch world?”
“I suppose I might under certain circumstances,” Adams replied, without any particular interest or enthusiasm.
“Your generation puzzles me.” The general shook his head. “If I could indulge the idiocy that passes for thought in some of my associates, I might infer that we were a generation of men and you are a generation of patsys. That would be shoddy reasoning, wouldn’t it, Barney?”
“Possibly, sir. Most generalizations tend to fall flat.”
“I’m a deceitful old bastard,” the general said thoughtfully, pacing back and forth from window to door and door to window, “but there are occasions when I say what is on my mind. There are times when I let go and let it pour out. But I have a notion that no one ever looks past your face, Barney. That fine, innocent, open and stupid American face that tells the whole world that we’re a nation of idiot patsys, of fourth-generation backwoods boobs, of Boy Scouts dressed in dollar bills. Yes, I said to myself—there’s the boy for me, Barney Adams, my old pal’s son—there’s the boy to rally round the flag—”
He stopped pacing, ground out his cigarette on Colonel Thompson’s polished floor, and flung one arm at Adams: “Just who in hell are you defending, sir? Tell me that! You’re not defending Winston! Or are you?”
Within himself, what Adams felt was not new. He had had this feeling before, the surflike pounding of his heart, the trembling of every limb, the beginning of terrible rage that only began and never culminated, the quivering of his fingers so that he clenched his hands to control them. This was the feeling of danger to himself by himself, and he was more afraid of it than he was of anything else. So he told himself: This is a general and you are a soldier, and a long, long time ago, it was decided that you would be a soldier, and you don’t whimper or cry—and above all you do not say things that you will regret.
All General Kempton saw was a man standing before him, a tall, good-looking, redheaded man who was not perturbed or upset by anything the general had said.
“Are you?” General Kempton repeated.
“No, I am not defending Charles Winston,” Adams answered softly.
“Then who the devil are you defending?”
“Myself.”
“What?”
Adams shook his head. “I can’t put it any better.”
Kempton resumed his pacing, his head bent. “God damn it, Barney,” he said, “look at it my way.”
“I do, sir. But I don’t see it your way.”
“I only ask you to look—to listen—to open that friggen Boy Scout mind of yours to a world of reality! Don’t you think I know what they’re saying—here, yes and in Washington and London too. They’re saying—Don’t worry. Kempton has it under control. Old Kempton is a hell of an able man, and that lousy, rotten Winston affair will finish up just the way Kempton wants it to. Kempton will fix it, they’re saying, and the court will bring in the verdict Kempton wants. It’s already decided. Do you think it’s already decided, Barney?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Do you think I can fix a trial like this?”
“No, sir, I don’t think you can.”
“Look what in hell I’m saddled with—that horse’s ass Thompson for a Judge Advocate General—talking me into making him president of the court, and myself being fool enough to do it and invite prejudice! And that mother’s mistake of a Major Smith for a trial counsel! Look at them! Look at the lot of them!”
“They’re your men, General Kempton,” Adams answered, unable now to keep the bitterness from his voice.
“Oh? And I suppose Archer Burton is my man too?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“In a few minutes we go back in there. Archer Burton is standing naked, his thin little mind shivering with fear. What are you going to do, Barney—destroy him?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Just tell me why?”
“Because,” Adams said deliberately, “he is a liar, a cheat and a coward. Because he’s covered himself with dirt and it rubs off everywhere, and because I am dirty with the same dirt—and I can’t live with it. Maybe this way I can make myself a little cleaner.”
“What in hell are you talking about?”
“It’s ten minutes to three, sir.”
“Wait a minute, Barney,” the general said, halting his pacing, “and just don’t go off half-cocked.” His voice became softer, persuasive. “We’re not strangers. You’re the son of one of my best friends. We share something, an old and glorious tradition—as phony as that may sound. You must have understood that. What else led you to resign a commission in the Advocate’s and go off and enlist in the infantry? You’ve made it the hard way—those bars on your shoulders, you’ve won them in the field. No one gave them to you. When I say that anything is worth the price if it brings unity to this theater, then you know what I am talking about.”
“I know.”
“That’s what I wanted to see—” the general began.
But Adams interrupted, “No, not what you wanted to see, sir! You don’t buy unity by framing the hanging of a sick and insane man! You don’t buy victory by rigging a murder trial! You buy destruction that way—you buy—”
“Barney!”
Adams stopped. His face was white, his hands clenched stiffly by his sides.
“All right, Captain Adams,” the general said. “You have made yourself clear. You said destruction before. Go ahead and destroy yourself, Captain Adams.”
Monday 3.00 P. M.
Barney Adams returned to the courtroom through a crowd of pleading reporters, who knew that something of importance had happened—but as yet could find no indication of what that something was. However, before the day was to finish, the events of the afternoon w
ould be public knowledge—at least in general outline. Adams had already come to realize that no court-martial is secret, whether or not the doors are closed.
The court came to order quickly and deliberately. Whatever had happened during the half-hour of recess had changed the court—and no one present now failed to sense the change. The change was in the faces of the court, the eyes of the officers, in the way they sat in their chairs, and in the way they watched and listened.
The change was also heard in the flat, tired tones of Colonel Thompson’s voice as he said to Sergeant Debbs, “You will read the last question Captain Adams addressed to Colonel Burton!”
“Perhaps we should suspend judgment on whether or not this is important, Colonel Burton,” Sergeant Debbs read from his notes. “Now I ask you, is it regular procedure at the hospital for the physician in charge of a particular patient to prepare a report on that patient’s condition and progress?”
“You will answer that question, sir,” Colonel Thompson said to Burton.
“Yes, that is our procedure,” Colonel Burton said.
“And in the case of the defendant, Lieutenant Charles Winston—was such a report prepared?” Adams asked.
“Well—well, sir, I said that it was procedure. It is.”
“That is not what I asked you, Colonel. I asked you whether in the case of Lieutenant Charles Winston such a report was prepared?”
“Probably so.”
Adams voice hardened as he said, “No, Colonel, you are under oath. If you know the answer to my question, please be good enough to offer it to the court.”
“I answered your question.”
Colonel Mayburt’s voice cut in. “No, sir—you did not answer the question. Do you understand, sir, that you sit as a witness in a court of law? Answer yes or no!”
“Yes,” Burton whispered.
Adams walked over to Moscow, who handed him a sheaf of paper, eleven sheets stapled together. He took this and gave it to Burton and demanded, “Is this that report to which you referred, sir?”
