The Ville Rat

by Martin Limon

“That’s what in-country discharge means,” Riley replied.

  I studied the folder. A black-and-white photo was attached to it. Ernie glanced at it.

  “That’s the Ville Rat alright.”

  It was unmistakably him. Except that instead of an Afro, he had a short haircut that didn’t accentuate the bright color of his hair. But it was the same narrow face, the same pointed chin, and a grim set to his mouth, as if he’d been observing something of which he didn’t completely approve. His name tag said Penwold. The personnel folder gave his first name as Orrin and his middle initial as W.

  “Orrin W. Penwold,” Ernie said. “No wonder he calls himself Rat.”

  He’d been a supply clerk who got lucky. First, he’d been transferred from Fort Hood, Texas, to Korea, skipping Vietnam, which was a good thing in and of itself, and then he’d hit the jackpot. Apparently there’d been an opening at the Central Locker Fund at about the same time he arrived and he’d been assigned to fill it. Despite acting like he didn’t give a damn, Riley had taken it upon himself to request the TO&E, or the Table of Operations and Equipment, from personnel. Every unit and operating section in the army had one. It spelled out what type of personnel and equipment was authorized and budgeted for. The Central Locker Fund was authorized only one active-duty NCO. Everyone else who worked there, like the boss, Rick Mills, was either a Department of the Army Civilian or a local Korean hire. Being a GI in an all-civilian unit meant that you’d be the gopher, the guy all the shit jobs fell to, but it also meant that you didn’t have to put up with a lot of military baloney, like extra training and duty on the weekends. In other words, the Central Locker Fund was a prime assignment.

  “Who has the job now?” Ernie asked.

  “The guy we saw when we were out there, Master Sergeant Demoray.”

  “Must be nice,” Ernie said, “to roll out of shit and fall into clover.”

  “I need one more thing,” I told Riley.

  “What?” he barked.

  I leaned across his desk and said it softly. “On the QT. Can you get me Rick Mills’s address?”

  “Out on the economy?”

  “Yeah. CPO must have it.” The Civilian Personnel Office.

  I knew he was about to ask what I needed it for, but then he thought better of it and tightened his narrow lips. “You’ll owe me,” he said.

  Last night, moonlight streamed in from an open window. Leah Prevault—also known as Captain Prevault—lay snuggled in my arms. She sighed and raised herself to tell me what she’d learned.

  “Sergeant Orgwell is in an advanced state of denial,” she said. “Clearly, he lives a double life and hates himself for it. I want you to stay away from him.” She placed two soft fingers on my lips. “To protect himself, he could even resort to violence.”

  “And Threets?” I asked.

  “Also dangerous. Because of the trauma and humiliation he experienced, he could explode in rage.”

  “So you believe he’s telling the truth?”

  “I believe he experienced a deep and personal trauma. Whether it was because of Sergeant Orgwell or someone else, I can’t be sure.”

  “You could’ve called me. Left a message with Miss Kim.”

  “She seems like a nice woman.”

  “She is.”

  “But I wanted to tell you myself.”

  “I’m glad you did. I want to see you again.”

  She rose from the bed and stepped toward me. “Name the time and place,” she said.

  After the recess, Second Lieutenant Conroy walked forward like a kid about to deliver an oral report in front of the class. He swallowed hard and then started to talk.

  “Let the record show,” he said, “that we will offer testimony that the defendant Private First Class Clinton Threets of Charley Battery of the Second of the Seventeenth Field Artillery Battalion was subject to harassment and homosexual assault that resulted in severe mental stress and . . .”

  The presiding officer banged his gavel.

  “Lieutenant Conroy, you were informed during the pre-trial proceedings that these unfounded allegations were not going to be allowed into my courtroom.”

  “Yes, sir, but . . .”

  “Not buts about it. I’m not going to allow this trial to be used to smear the reputation of an outstanding senior NCO with a long-standing record of excellent job performance. Now, if you plan to get into training or discipline issues, then that could be considered.” In the stands, the Gunslinger squirmed. “But only if you’re planning on presenting the court with concrete evidence.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Conroy’s head drooped and he walked back to the defense table. He glanced at Ernie and me desperately, knowing that he couldn’t call us to the stand to testify about Threets’s allegations of assault or Sergeant Orgwell’s violent reaction to those allegations. There was no doubt that Threets had shot Orgwell; Lieutenant Mendelson’s prosecution case had established that beyond a reasonable doubt, so without mitigating circumstances, the defense case was pretty much blown to smithereens. There was only one thing left for Conroy to do.

  “If it please the court,” he said, “I call the accused, Private First Class Clifton Threets, to the stand.”

  “So ordered,” the presiding judge said.

  Threets rose from his chair and, still in shackles, shuffled forward. Quickly, he was read the oath by the clerk of court, said “I do,” and took his seat on the witness stand.

  The whole questioning process was painful. Conroy was nervous and Threets’s voice was hollow and barely audible. One kept longing for a grown-up to take over. Still, the two young men did manage to present the pertinent testimony. Threets had just started to tell of how he was called into the day room by SFC Orgwell when Lieutenant Mendelson sprang to her feet to object.

  “Your Honor,” she said, “this is the very hearsay evidence that you said you would not allow into your courtroom.”

  The judge thought about it. “I won’t allow it as hearsay evidence. But as direct testimony from the accused, I will allow it. He has a right to testify in his own defense. However, the court will consider the self-serving nature of such testimony.”

  Which was sort of like saying to Threets, you can tell us your side of the story, but don’t expect us to believe you.

  Ernie sneered. “The judge is just afraid of getting overturned on appeal.”

  Threets continued his testimony.

  In the day room, Threets was being given solo counseling and had been told what an outstanding soldier he was when SFC Orgwell started to touch him.

  The crowd murmured in indignation. Threets lowered his head. When the murmuring subsided, Lieutenant Conroy prodded him to continue.

  When Threets objected to Sergeant Orgwell’s advances, there was a brief shouting match. They wrestled for a while, but eventually Threets shoved Orgwell away and escaped from the room. Later, it played on his mind. Who was this senior NCO to try to take advantage of him like that? What if Orgwell told Threets’s buddies? What if he tried it again? What if word got out and people thought Threets had gone along with it?

  “Would you say,” Lieutenant Conroy asked, “that you held a grudge against Sergeant Orgwell?”

  “Yes,” Threets replied. “It plays on my mind, all day, all night. Pretty soon, that’s all I can think about.”

  “And then you went to the range?”

  “He was there.” Involuntarily, Threets glanced at the wounded SFC Orgwell seated in the stands. “And he smiled at me.”

  “What did you think when he smiled at you?”

  “I couldn’t take it. He act like him and me, we got a secret. We don’t. I couldn’t take it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I shot him.” Threets shook his head. “I shouldn’t have done it, but I did.” Threets sat up straighter and stared right at Orgwel
l. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you shoulda left me alone.”

  Using an aluminum crutch, Orgwell stood up. “He’s lying!” he yelled. “I never touched him! I never invited him into the day room! He shot me because I’m white and he’s black!”

  The presiding officer pounded his gavel and shouted, “Order!”

  Someone next to Orgwell stood and grabbed his shoulders and tried to calm him down. When Orgwell sat back down, the presiding officer asked Lieutenant Conroy if he had any further questions of the witness. When he said he didn’t, Conroy took his seat and the prosecutor, Lieutenant Peggy Mendelson, approached Threets.

  “Private Threets,” she asked, “how long have you been in the army?”

  Hanging his head, Threets mumbled something.

  “What? Speak up for the court, please.”

  Threets sat up straighter and said. “Two years, almost.”

  “And during that two years, did your training include any information about the chain of command?”

  Threets nodded.

  Peggy Mendelson sighed and addressed the court. “Sir, would you please instruct the accused that he needs to answer the questions verbally, not with head nodding.”

  The presiding officer did. Lieutenant Mendelson asked the question again, and Threets acknowledged that he had received training concerning the chain of command.

  “And Private Threets, who is your immediate supervisor?”

  “Sergeant Rohmer.”

  “And who’s he?”

  “My gun crew chief.”

  “Did you inform Sergeant Rohmer about the incident with Sergeant Orgwell?”

  Threets shook his head negatively.

  “Out loud, please,” Lieutenant Mendelson said.

  “No,” Threets responded.

  “And in your chain of command, who is above Sergeant Rohmer?”

  “First Sergeant Bolton.”

  “And did you inform First Sergeant Bolton about your disagreement with Sergeant Orgwell?”

  Again Threets said he hadn’t.

  Lieutenant Mendelson continued on like this, asking Threets about his battery commanding officer and the battalion CO and so on, until finally she said, “So you never attempted to resolve your problem by using the chain of command, did you, Private Threets?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t trust them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they don’t listen to us.”

  “They don’t listen to you, meaning lower-ranking soldiers?”

  “No. I mean they don’t listen to us black soldiers. They don’t give a damn about us.”

  “Objection!”

  Everyone in the court started at the strong command voice, and all heads swiveled. General Kokol, the Gunslinger, was red faced and on his feet. “That’s not true! The chain of command works. I see to it personally that it works and I make damn sure that our black soldiers are treated fairly.”

  The presiding officer banged his gavel, then pointed it like a weapon at the Gunslinger. “General Kokol, with all due respect to your rank, you are to please refrain from interrupting these proceedings.”

  The Gunslinger shook a bony finger at Threets. “But he’s lying!”

  Ernie elbowed me. I turned to see three black soldiers standing in the entranceway. Two of them I recognized. The same guys Ernie had talked to and shared a reefer with behind the Charley Battery motor pool up at Camp Pelham.

  “Who you calling a liar?” one of them shouted. His name tag said Burlington and his rank was corporal. He stepped into the room and his two buddies followed. “My man Threets be innocent!” he shouted. “That guy,” he continued, pointing at Orgwell, “laid hands on him. He laid hands on the brother!”

  By now everyone was shouting. The Gunslinger stepped toward them, ordering the three young men out of the courtroom. Involuntarily, his left hand reached for the hilt of one of his pearl-handled revolvers. The black GIs surged forward, bypassing the old general, reaching Threets and greeting him with fists tapping on fists. The Gunslinger’s aide tried to pull him back, away from the men. The presiding judge kept banging on his gavel, shouting at the MPs to clear the courtroom, and finally they reacted—not approaching the skinny old man with the revolvers, but the three young black men surrounding Threets. When the first MP grabbed the closest man, he resisted. Punches were thrown, and by now the Gunslinger had pushed his aide away and actually pulled one of the pistols out and waved it in the air. The MPs unsheathed their batons and started swinging. The black soldiers fought back.

  Ernie and I were still seated, Ernie grinning ear to ear.

  “We have to stop this,” I said.

  “Can’t I enjoy it for just a little longer?”

  “The Gunslinger’s about to shoot somebody.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a hoot?”

  We rose to our feet, but at the same moment, a squad of MP reinforcements bulled their way into the room. Batons swung everywhere, men shouted, and the Gunslinger fired a round into the air. I stepped toward him and held his wrist, making sure his pearl-handled revolver kept pointing at the ceiling.

  “Let go of me, dammit!” he shouted.

  “When you put the gun away,” I said.

  Reluctantly, he lowered his hand and shoved the pistol back in its holster. “I’ll get you, Sween-o.”

  The MPs left him alone as he and his aide stalked out the main entrance. The three Division soldiers who’d come to support Threets were handcuffed and thrown into the back of a quarter-ton truck. Threets was thrown in with them, along with Lieutenant Conroy.

  “He’s the defense counsel,” I told one of the MPs.

  He shrugged. “Colonel’s orders.”

  The presiding judge glared at us, apparently wondering if he should have us arrested too. Fortunately, he didn’t give the order.

  -12-

  Back in the CID office, Riley said, “What in the hell did you guys do?”

  “We didn’t do nothing,” Ernie told him.

  “But there was a riot at the courtroom and shots were fired. You must’ve had something to do with it.”

  “Just innocent bystanders,” Ernie told him. He stalked to the overheated coffee urn and poured himself a cup of burnt ink.

  I asked Riley, “Where’s the NAF inventory report?”

  “The one Burrows and Slabem did?”

  “Yes,” I said, “the one they won an award for.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Not your business,” I replied. “Where is it?”

  “Already filed,” he said.

  “In the records room?”

  “Where else?”

  I stalked out of the admin office and down the hallway. At a room marked records, I entered and switched on the light. It took a few minutes of searching, but eventually I pulled out the report and plopped the thick document down on a grey table. I sat down and pulled out my notebook and a pen. It was dry, all written in officialese with plenty of graphs and charts and dozens of pages of addendums, but despite these drawbacks, it made for interesting reading.

  Someone rapped on the door. Without waiting, Ernie entered.

  “What the hell you doing in here?”

  I told him.

  “And?”

  “And nothing. But some of these charts raise questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Just a few possible discrepancies. Let’s go talk to somebody.”

  “Where?”

  “The Eighth Army Comptroller’s Office.”

  Ernie groaned.

  “Don’t worry,” I told him, “it should be fun.”

  The head of the Non-Appropriated Fund section of the 8th Army Comptroller’s Office was a Department of the Army
Civilian by the imposing name of Wilbur M. Robinson Sr. He was a round-faced man with wispy hair combed straight back and an old-fashioned, neatly trimmed mustache beneath a red-veined nose. Every letter of his name was etched into a yard-wide hand-carved nameplate that covered the front edge of his mahogany desk.

  “Yes?” he said, glancing irritably up at us over steel-rimmed glasses.

  I flashed my badge. Ernie chomped on his gum, studying all the awards and photographs plastered to the walls. Some of them showed a youngish Mr. Robinson shaking hands and grinning with various American generals who could now be found in the indices of history books.

  “Who let you in?” he asked.

  “We did,” Ernie replied, jamming his thumb into his chest.

  “Who do you think you are?”

  “CID agents,” I replied, “investigating a criminal case.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can just barge in here.”

  “Sure it does,” Ernie replied, taking a seat in one of the leather-upholstered chairs.

  Mr. Robinson reached for the black telephone on the edge of his desk. Before he could lift it, I said, “The Central Locker Fund.” He stared up at me and let go of the phone. I slid one of Burrows and Slabem’s charts in front of him. “Notice anything odd about that?” I asked.

  He glanced at it but quickly looked back up at me.

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Expenditures versus receipt of inventory,” I said. “They don’t match. Haven’t for years.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  I pointed at one of the lines. “The prices here are approximately three percent higher than expected,” I said. “Have been for years.”

  “Prices fluctuate,” he said. “You can’t tell anything from a simple-minded chart.”

  “Simple-minded like the guys who conducted the inventory?” Ernie said.

  Robinson turned and studied him. Then he turned back to me. “You’re not here on official business, are you?”

  “Official as the day is long,” I said.

  “But nobody in your chain of command chopped off on this.”

  Chopped off. The slang of an old Asia hand, meaning gave the stamp of approval.