by Howard Fast
“I am making no diagnosis of these men in the seats of the mighty. I know very little about mental illness—only the fragments that I have picked up in the course of this case. But I have come to understand one thing—that this court convened here now, in the midst of the greatest war mankind ever knew, is not a piece of mummery or manners. Quite to the contrary, may it please you, the officers of this court—quite to the contrary, a part of the essence of this struggle resides here in this court.
“For here in this court, and this I know, Lieutenant Charles Winston will be judged apart from my hatred of him, apart from the contempt and the disgust that people may feel for him. He will be judged by a system of law that men have fought and died to achieve—and because here, here in this court of the United States Army, we go through this procedure, we prove ourselves, our struggle and the values we ask men to die for.
“We have won and organized a system of law which says, in effect, that when a man’s mind is mortally sick, he cannot be held responsible for his actions nor punished for those actions.
“I know of nothing more important than this seemingly ritualistic concern for the rights of a single individual—I know of nothing better that man has built, nothing more precious, nothing more holy to defend—to die for if need be. And it seems to me that not the least important action in this long and desperate struggle that involves all of us—will be the demonstration to the whole world that ours is a system of law. No man is above this law, none below it, and if we spoil it or breach it or corrupt it in one place, no matter what the necessity, we do ourselves irreparable hurt.
“Under this law, Lieutenant Charles Winston must be found not guilty—for, I believe, we have heard sufficient evidence to the effect that he is insane and thereby not to be held responsible for his actions. May it please the court and the officers of this court, I submit this plea and ask that a verdict of not guilty be given.”
As he finished and walked back to his place, Barney Adams realized that his summation had been inadequate, brief in length even for a military court, touching on none of the finer points of evidence, and adding nothing to Major Kaufman’s remarks. His only achievement, as he saw it, lay in the fact that he had said something—whereas when he began, there was nothing he knew that he could say which would make any appreciable difference.
He sat down in silence between Bender and Moscow, but they said nothing to him. He was afraid to face their eyes, nor was he aware of the silence and tension in the whole of the courtroom.
He hardly listened now as Major Smith spoke. Major Smith mocked at what he termed “groping sentimentalities” and at the resurrection of Plutarch as a witness; he went into the evidence, challenged Major Kaufman, defended Colonel Burton and pleaded with the court not to allow the world to laugh and sneer at American justice.
“I have heard many fine words here today,” he concluded, “and a good many half-baked theories. The fact remains that the defendant committed a brutal, an unspeakable murder—yes, by the testimony of his own counsel. He was sane enough to command the post at Bachree before he did this act of murder. He was sane enough to murder a man. And he is sane enough to know that insanity is his only defense. May it please the court—this man, Lieutenant Charles Winston, was not too insane to kill.” We submit that he is sane enough to pay the price for his crime, that he must pay this price, so that the men of our armed services and the people of the whole world may know that murder does not go unpunished under American law.
“Therefore, I ask that the defendant be found guilty as charged—guilty of murder in the first degree.”
When Major Smith finished his peroration and resumed his seat, Colonel Thompson talked to Mayburt in whispers—for perhaps two minutes. Then he called for attention with his gavel and said, “The court will now recess while the officers of the court-martial attempt to come to a verdict. The Provost is informed that the prisoner is to remain on the premises until otherwise instructed. Counsel for the defense and for the prosecution will also remain on the premises of the Judge Advocate General.
“Court is now recessed.”
Tuesday 4.20 P.M.
Adams found Moscow and Bender on either side of him, fending off the press, Bender telling them, “Look, have a heart. Captain Adams hasn’t had a moment to rest or relax for three days now. You know he isn’t permitted to comment.”
“No comment then,” one of them agreed. “Just a statement—anything, Captain. How do you feel about it? Are you glad it’s over?”
“He can’t comment—on anything—you know that!” Bender snapped. The two lieutenants moved along on either side of him, clearing a way and fending off questions. Corporal Baxter had come into the broad foyer of the building, and he joined them and added his bulk to the little group around Adams.
Bender led them into the corridor opposite the courtroom, opened a door, and told Adams, once they were inside the small room, “This is our room for the rest of today, sir. You can relax and just take it easy here.”
“I wanted to talk to Major Kaufman,” Adams protested.
“No, sir,” Baxter said. “He went straight back to the hospital. I took him there.”
Adams nodded and dropped into a chair. “Funny I’m so damned tired,” he said. “I feel it in the back, where I was cut up. God, I’m tired.”
“Anything I can do, just ask me, Lieutenant,” Baxter told Bender.
“Sure,” Bender replied. “Look, Corporal, we’re going to be here for a good long spell, and I suppose the Judge Advocate will break their hearts and feed us, but God knows when that will be! Can you pick up some cold beer and a couple of tins of those limey crackers they call biscuits—the salty kind, not the sweet stuff.” He stuffed a handful of bills into Baxter’s palm. “Make sure the beer is cold, and if it’s in tin, get an opener. O.K.?”
“Sure, Lieutenant. Do you want cigarettes, too?”
“Might as well. We’re bound to run out.”
The corporal was at the door when Adams said, “Baxter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see her onto the plane?”
“Yes, sir. I helped her with her valpack.”
“Was. she all right?”
“She was all right, Captain.”
“What kind of a plane was it—not one of those damn C46’s?”
“No, sir—it was a C47—a real nice plane, no bucket job, but seats and upholstery and the whole works.”
“Thank you, Baxter.”
“What the hell, Captain, it was nothing,” he said, and then he went out.
Adams lit a cigarette and sat in silence, smoking. For a little while neither Bender nor Moscow said anything. Their silence irritated Adams. He had never felt just like this before, tense and tired and nervous as a cat, and finally he burst out at them, “Damn it to hell, say it!”
Bender looked at him curiously. Moscow asked softly, “Say what, sir? I wanted to say something. There are times when you don’t know what to say.”
“You’re both lawyers. Tell me how I loused it up! There’s no need for courtesy. It’s done with. A week from now I’ll be on my way out of here.”
“You didn’t louse it up,” Moscow whispered. “So help me God, I think you won the case.”
“How—by doing everything wrong, even that Boy Scout dosing? By parading my stinking little bit of knowledge? By destroying Burton, a setup if ever there was one, and ten times the man that rat Winston ever was? How?”
“That Boy Scout closing,” Bender said, “was the most moving thing I ever heard in a courtroom. I didn’t say anything. What could I say, sir?”
“You didn’t try the case right,” Moscow said. “It broke my heart the way you fought and straggled your way through it. But I think if you had tried the case any other way, you wouldn’t have had the chance of a snowball in hell.”
“I was rotting here,” Bender said. “I was hating myself and the whole world, stuck in this lousy, festering ass-hole of the universe. And I’ll
continue to rot here because that miserable bastard Thompson can’t stand for me to keep my nose pink. But I won’t hate myself any more. Not after today.”
“What did you expect us to say?” Moscow demanded. “What in hell do you say to someone like yourself, sir? You tell me.”
“You came here Wednesday—Wednesday,” Bender said, “one lousy week ago.”
Choking with something he had never felt before, hardly able to get the words out, Adams stood up and said, “Damn you—get out of here, both of you! Leave me alone for a while! You can’t be alone ten minutes in this mother-friggen army!”
Tuesday 6.25 P.M.
They were sitting in the little room, finishing the last of the beer and listening to Baxter’s story of how two girls held up the filling station in Nashville one night, when Sergeant Candyman knocked at the door and then entered with a tray of sandwiches and a pot of coffee.
“They should have just let us starve,” Baxter said.
“The hell you’re starving!”
“What is your status, Candyman?” Bender demanded. “Are you a spy or a God damned Saint Bernard dog?”
“I’m just a neutral, sir,” Candyman said. “They needed help. There’s a lot of feeding around here tonight.”
“Leave him alone,” Adams said.
“Candyman—what do we drink the coffee out of, the pot?” Bender demanded.
“I’ll ask the general, sir.”
“You do that,” Bender agreed.
Candyman put down the sandwiches and coffee, smiled at them, and left. Only Bender began to eat. Adams said to Moscow, “Want some air, Lieutenant?”
They went outside to the garden. The rain had stopped, and the air was sweet and clean and fragrant in the twilight. The sighing wind brought its medley of odor, the jasmine, the scent of roses in the garden, the sharp tang of charcoal and dung burning. In the sky a lacework of clouds glowed in every shade of orange and purple, and against this color a single great vulture wheeled and swooped.
“I suppose one could become used to this,” Adams reflected.
“One could.”
“I suppose, in time, you could come to love it.”
“I think I love it, sometimes,” Moscow confessed. “I’m beginning to understand it, a little.”
“It takes time,” Adams said, his first regret like a sharp twinge inside of him. “I’ll be going away—and I won’t want to go.”
“No, you don’t want to go away. That’s the strangest part of it,” Moscow said.
Tuesday 9.40 P.M.
By half-past eight all conversation had stopped. Baxter had taken the jeep to the car pool for gas. Adams, Moscow and Bender had spent the last hour in silence. They were still silent when there was a knock at the door. Moscow opened it.
A military policeman there said, “The court is convening now, sir. Will you take your places?”
They walked through the hall in the same silence. Kempton was still there, as were his guests, but they walked apart from Adams and his group, nor did the general even glance at him.
At the doors to the courtroom, Adams and the two lieutenants waited for Winston to pass them. Two MP’s were with him. One of them ventured to support his arm; he shook himself free. He walked into the courtroom and sat down. The others followed him. They remained standing.
Thompson was pale, his eyes bloodshot. When he told them to be seated, his voice shook just a little.
Adams studied the officers of the court-martial, but there was nothing to be read from their appearance. They were tired, and their faces were set and expressionless. Their eyes sought no one and conveyed nothing.
“I don’t care now,” Adams told himself. But that was not true; he had cared more and about more things this past week than ever before in his life. He had cared more deeply and felt more poignantly than ever before—and he still cared. He had struggled with thoughts that were new, with words that were unfamiliar, and with concepts unclear and only half formed.
He had a sense of failure, of inadequacy and defeat. But he still cared; that had not changed.
“Will the prisoner stand,” Colonel Thompson said.
Winston rose to his feet. He did not look at Thompson or at Adams, but only at his hands, which he held trembling at his waist.
“The court has come to a verdict,” Thompson continued. “The court finds that the prisoner is not guilty and orders that he be returned to the General Hospital for further treatment.”
Winston gave no evidence of having heard anything at all. He stood as he had been. Adams heard himself saying, in a hoarse whisper, “I’m glad it’s done.”
Adams had taken his company back from the front to the rest area at Okinawa, and their mail was waiting. Among his letters was one from Major Kaufman, the first communication since they had parted some five months before. He read it-eagerly.
I hope this finds you in good health. I have no idea where you actually are now, but I think I might guess. Will it surprise you to hear that in so short a time the Winston affair is practically forgotten? Not only did it fail to split the Grand Alliance, but strangely enough the decision ended some of the ill feeling in this theater.
Winston, poor devil, managed to cut his wrists on the way back to stateside and he was buried at sea. I can feel a twinge of pity for him now. From Sorenson, I had a note only a few days ago—the first in a long time. She just married a British merchant seaman, the first officer on an armed cargo ship. Not many details. She speaks of him as a. decent fellow, and she may remain in England when this long and weary war ends.
I know that you became fond of Oscar Moscow, one of your assistants at the trial—and it’s a bitter thing to have to tell you about his death. He volunteered for service in Burma—I guess you read about that operation—and his request was granted all too eagerly. He was killed in action there—I don’t suppose he had it in him to be much of an infantryman. Harvey Bender was very close to him and very deeply affected by his death. He holds Thompson responsible, but I think he’s all wrong there. Moscow did what he had to do, and only he was responsible.
For myself, my prediction was remarkably accurate. I am dispensing drugs, counting atabrine pills, and tending to all the various and sundry ailments that flow into our dispensary at the end of the narrow gauge, about seventy miles past Bachree and in the same stinking jungle. My one solace is the day or two each week that I spend with Major Kensington—you remember him, of course. We play cribbage, a foolish game he taught me.
One more note on my own fate—and I imagine this will interest you. Before I left, General Kempton called me in to Headquarters. I had a brief hope that he intended to recognize my small talents and employ them, but he immediately made it plain that he had no intentions of interfering with Colonel Burton’s decisions. He pointed out that as Theater Commander he stood apart from such things. Then he sat me down, gave me a cigarette, became as charming as the occasion demanded, and wanted to know whether it was my idea to testify-that is, my very own.
Of course, he pointed out that I was not obligated to tell him, but I saw no reason not to. I said that you had persuaded me—that left to my own devices, I’d have had neither the guts nor the desire to stick my neck out.
“And you did this because Barney Adams talked you into it?” he said.
I said that you had not talked me into anything except a sharp and dear look at myself—and then I had recognized the simple necessity of living with myself.
He didn’t buy this easily, but the truth is that you were his problem, not me. He said this and that and then came to the heart of the matter—what devil drove Barney Adams?
Why ask me, I wanted to know—and he said words to the effect of my being a psychiatrist and therefore under some obligation to understand why men did the things they do. Well, I replied that the approach was fallacious. You were not sick, and therefore no more my problem than his. But I offered a guess—a poor one, I suppose. I said that a thoughtful soldier can suffer a particular
agony of his own, and that it becomes almost an implacable necessity to balance killing with some rational purpose.
I don’t know whether he saw what I meant, although your Kempton is far from a fool. He replied that whatever his own feelings were concerning one Barney Adams, he refused to believe that you would not defend your country—whether or not you believed in your country’s cause.
I had no quarrel with that. I only wondered—aloud—whether under such circumstances you could also defend Barney Adams.
“Then he was defending himself?” Kempton demanded.
“Or whatever he believed in,” I replied, and pointed out that there were people to whom belief was of prime importance. He then wanted me to spell out this belief—re Winston, but I had no right to talk for you, and I left him perhaps no less troubled and bemused than I had found him.
For myself, I have thought about it more than I should, and I think I begin to comprehend the Winston affair. It does not bear easy explaining. It is almost a frightening thing to come to believe that no infraction of the laws that man made to defend man can be lightly tolerated, that the whole fabric is one, and that, ripped anywhere, it can threaten the whole. Is it this long and terrible war that has given some of us the feeling that the rights of man are holy beyond dispute? Or is that the single ray of light in the darkness that covers the world? I must confess that I don’t know. The Winston case is something I feel very deeply, as I am sure you do, but I find it very hard to talk about.
So there is a very brief summary or postscript to the Winston affair. I should enjoy hearing from you sometime—if you find yourself with time on your hands. As with so many people one meets in a war, you want to know them better and longer. But the whole thing is too large and too much in motion.
