Casualties of War: The Advocate Trilgy

by Bill Mesce

  “To do what?”

  “Compile information.”

  “Again: to do what?”

  “I just put it together. They can do whatever they want with it. Or do nothing. I kind of like not having to make the decision about how to use it.”

  Even in the shadowy night, Harry could see – or, more properly, sense – a suspicious smile on his friend’s face. “Did you really choose that toilet you call an office?”

  “I keep to myself, I don’t bother anybody, and I hope nobody’ll bother me.”

  “Oh, so little Harry’s learned his lesson.”

  “He’s learned his lesson.”

  “Keep your head down, your mouth shut, and blend in with the walls.”

  “That’s the ticket.”

  “You are so full of shit…”

  “Flattery was never your strong suit.”

  “Not true. You better than anybody else know that I am the all–time heavyweight title–holding ass–kisser in the Judge Advocate’s. But one kisses ass up the chain of command; not down.”

  “Keep piling it on. I still have a shred of dignity left.”

  “Sit down, Harry.”

  “I prefer to stand for my abuse.”

  “Harry…”

  Harry took a seat nearby – though not too close – on the cold stone. Ryan patted his coat pockets, came up with an empty, crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Can you butt me, Harry?”

  Harry drew out his own pack and lit one for each of them.

  “You remember Vinnie D. back home? Over on Garside Street? Remember that dog of his? Tripod?”

  “Tripod?”

  “You remember. That ratty little mutt he had.”

  “You mean Sebastian.”

  “I called him Tripod.”

  “Because he only had three legs.”

  “God, how I hated that flea–bag. You know how many times that dog tried to take a piece out of me?”

  “Maybe if you stopped calling him Tripod…”

  “You remind me of ol’ Tripod.”

  “There it goes: that last piece of dignity I was holding on to.”

  “Remember that little trick of Tripod’s?”

  “The way he used to stand on his two front legs to pee? I remind you of that? I’ll have you know I’ve been standing on two legs to pee most of my life.”

  “Tripod was a leftie whizzer. When he had all his legs, he’d stand on his right leg and lift his left one to take a leak. Then that moron in the LaSalle hit him. Vinne D. was a wreck. He loved that dog in a way that wasn’t natural. He went into hock with that shy over on the other side of the block to pay the vet so he didn’t have to put that goddamned miserable hairball down. His wife found out about that and Vinnie spent three days living on my fire escape until his wife took him back in.

  “The vet had to take Tripod’s right back leg off. Now you’d think that if a dog had something bigger than a dog’s brain, the reasonable thing to do would be that whenever the dog had to take a leak, all he had to do now was lean the other way and whizz out the right side. But no, not ol’ Tripod. Creature of habit. He learned how to stand on his two front legs so he could keep lifting that back left leg.”

  Their laughter sounded thin and lost echoing off the marble tiers of the Colosseum.

  “You make fun of that poor dog but he always impressed me that he could do that,” Harry said.

  “It impressed me, too. At the same time, I thought it was the dumbest thing I’d ever seen. You remind me of Tripod, too, Harry–boy.”

  “I’m considering putting my cigarette out in your ear.”

  “Harry…” Quiet, now; somber. Only the sound – almost a moan – of the November wind slipping round the arches of the amphitheater.

  Harry waited.

  Ryan took a last puff and stamped his cigarette out with finality. “Just for the sake of argument, let’s say you have learned to behave yourself. What would it take to get you to fight one more fight you couldn’t win?”

  “What kind of fight?”

  “Dominick Sisto needs your help, Harry.”

  “Dominick? He get caught breaking into another wine cellar? That cost him his sergeant’s stripes, you know, back when his outfit – ”

  “Was still in Italy, I know. This is a little bigger than that. And by the way: he’s a lieutenant now.”

  Despite Ryan’s grave tone, Harry couldn’t restrain a proud smile. “Dominck? A lieutenant? I’ll be damned! Where is he? We were still in touch when they transferred his division to England for a re–fit. I haven’t heard from him in a while. I assumed they were sent into France.”

  “A place called the Huertgen Forest,” Ryan said glumly, “on the border between Belgium and Germany. Not that far from where I am in Liege. That’s how I know about this. My office is handling the case.”

  Still not expecting anything more serious than a charge of drunk and disorderly, Harry lightly asked, “How much trouble is he in?”

  Joe Ryan stood with a sigh. He stepped down onto the tier in front of them, his eyes gazing down into the shadows of the stadium well. “Worst case? Tie him to a post with a black sack over his head kind of trouble.”

  For a moment, Harry thought – hoped – this was a poor jest of Ryan’s. But the other man turned to look up at Harry with a sad, helpless, confirming nod.

  “Dominick?” Harry shook his head; denying, disbelieving.

  “Desertion under fire,” Ryan explained, “disobeying a direct order – and don’t say ‘Dominick’ again. Yes, Dominick. Making a mutiny. They’re throwing a load of other Mickey Mouse stuff on his head as icing.”

  Harry stood, turned himself in an anxious little circle and sat back down. Again, they were quiet. Again, the strange moan of the wind through the galleries. “You said this is up in your neighborhood. You couldn’t do anything?”

  Ryan smiled shamefacedly. “I can’t. I’m going to be sitting on the trial as law officer. He asked for you, Harry.”

  Harry shook his head. “Defense counsel shouldn’t come from JAG staff.”

  “That’s the recommendation, but it’s not ironclad. You’re not a part of my JAG staff. Right now, you’re not part of anybody’s JAG staff. Hell, Harry, you haven’t even done any trial work since you came here.”

  “If the defense counsel comes from JAG, it risks the appearance of impropriety and unfairness. Even if I’m not attached at the moment – ”

  Ryan laughed caustically. “Harry, we’re way past the appearance of impropriety! I’m so far out on a limb… I’m not even here officially! I have to be on a plane back to Liege in a couple of hours so I’m back for reveille. If it gets out that Dominick’s judge snuck down here to draft Dominick’s defense counsel… All three of us wind up in the crapper.”

  “Does anybody up there know how well you know the kid?”

  Ryan shook his head. “They know I know him, but they don’t know I know him. If they did, I’d be asked to recuse myself.”

  “Who’s prosecuting? Anybody I know from the London days?”

  Ryan shook his head. “Trial counsel’s a new guy, captain named Courie, came on with me in September just before we shipped out from London. Word was he was some kind of hotshot ADA in Cleveland – Cleveland for Chrissakes – before the war. You know; one of those young–up–and–coming types. I don’t know what that means in Cleveland. For all I know a major crime there is kicking someone’s dog. I think he’s thinking of something better when he gets home than being an ADA in Cleveland.”

  “He’s trying to run up a score over here?”

  Ryan nodded. “Since I’ve known him…” Ryan’s face lit up with an inspiration. “Remember Armando Grassi?”

  Harry expressed a wincing smile. “I remember.”

  “Same kind of hungry, only this guy’s a smoothie. Except in the courtroom. Then the gloves come off and there he’s a tiger, Harry. A maneater! You come out of the courtroom after a tussle with him, you’d better count your fingers to ma
ke sure you still have ‘em all.

  “He pushed himself into this; that’s how hungry he is. I couldn’t very well keep him out. With his pedigree it would’ve looked funny if I’d tried to block him. Let me warn you: he’s sharp, he’ll smell something if I don’t play this perfectly straight, so don’t look for me to do anything more than sympathize once we’re at trial.”

  “Has anybody been holding Dominick’s hand so far?”

  “He knew some kid in his outfit that had just passed the bar before he was inducted. Kid’s so green he makes you look like Clarence Darrow.”

  “You always know the nice thing to say.” Harry noted how short his cigarette had burned. He stubbed it out on the travertine seat and dropped the extinguished butt in his jacket pocket. “I don’t know that I’m his best bet. Like you said, Joe: I haven’t done any trial work in five months. The few big cases I’ve been on…as you know, they haven’t exactly been stellar successes. And I’ve never handled a defense.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ryan said resignedly, sitting himself close by Harry. “Like I told you at the top: you won’t win. Even Dominick knows that.”

  “Is that a comment on my ability? Or is it that open–and–shut?”

  “I dropped some notes off at your room before I came up to your office. There’s some photostats of the Investigating Officer’s report, the charge sheet. Try not to let anybody know where you got them. They’ll give you a better idea. He’s alone, Harry, and this doesn’t look good for him. I think he just wants you there. I’m hoping maybe you can do something to justify moderating the sentence.”

  “What’s the trial date?”

  “December 8th. The charges were only filed last week.”

  “That’s awfully fast for a capital case.”

  “They have reasons to close this fast.”

  “They?”

  “The powers that be; the brass hats; the rulers by divine right. He committed the cardinal sin, Harry. He’s a junior officer who disobeyed a direct order from his superior. We could drive cross–town and steal that ice cream cone hat of the pope’s and we wouldn’t draw as big a thunderbolt from the Almighty as what Dominick did. Throw in desertion under fire… They want him slapped down hard and fast.” Ryan paused, considering going on.

  “What’s the rest?”

  Ryan smiled at how easily his friend had read him. “First Army’s been bogged down in the Huertgen since September. The casualty numbers keep running up, and nobody sees an end. Sooner or later, somebody’s going to ask the question: Does anybody here know what the hell they’re doing? This is the kind of case that can prompt that question, and there’s a lot of people who prefer that question doesn’t get asked. Courie’s taking advantage of that and trying to shoot this through before a defense can come together.”

  Harry shook his head. It never ends, he told himself, it never changes. “Not a lot of time,” as much to himself as to Ryan. “I’m going to need a good second chair to help with the scut work.”

  Ryan nodded. “I was thinking maybe Peter Ricks.”

  Harry smiled. “I was thinking the same thing. Except he’s in San Francisco.”

  “What makes you think he’s in San Francisco?”

  “The last word I got was he’d been wounded at Cassino. Pretty bad. I didn’t hear from him after that so I assumed they’d shipped him home.”

  “They tried. God knows he was eligible. He fought it. He’s in England. I already cabled him. He said no.”

  “I need him, Joe.”

  “Then go talk to him. I don’t think they’re going to be sorry to see him go.”

  “I have to talk with my CO about getting permission – ”

  “Already approved.” Even under the serious circumstances, Ryan delighted in the puzzlement on Harry’s face. “I don’t know who you pissed off, Harry – and I don’t want to know – but whoever it is is big and mighty pissed! I got the distinct impression that the faster you’re out of Rome the better. In fact, I don’t think they want you coming back…Tripod.”

  “That’s funny. Tripod. Ha ha. I…I need to do something about all that material in my office.”

  Ryan glanced at his luminous dial watch. “In about two minutes you have to hustle me to my plane. With my shrewd sense of anticipation, I checked on flights. There’s a regular morning courier plane to London out of here every morning. I’ve got you on it tomorrow. You have until then to make whatever arrangements you want for all that crap in your office. I expect you in Liege – with or without Ricks – no later than the day after tomorrow.” Ryan clamped a friendly hand on his chum’s slumped shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, Harry–boy. You were their ‘due diligence.’ If anybody asked what they were doing about whatever, well, they could say, ‘We’ve got ol’ Harry Voss looking into it now. Harry, why don’t you show them the latest pile? See? We’re on it. If they cared – really cared – they wouldn’t be in such a rush to shoot you out of here. But they don’t.”

  “I know,” Harry said. “But I do.”

  CHAPTER TWO: Cohanim

  THIS IS WHAT THE END OF THE WORLD LOOKS LIKE. Fields of brick and stone and jagged timbers in heaps; gutted buildings, abandoned homes, a stalagmite of wavering wall with a glassless window, an ajar door, jutting from the debris field; paths of frozen mud, puddles of stagnant water glazed with ice. The end of the world is dark; a moonless, starless night, and cold. A damp wind stirs a lazy flurry of snowflakes round and round until they settle in a chiaroscuro of white powder and tumbled and charred ruins. Save the rats, there is but one live soul at the end of the world; a liquor–sodden cripple noting it all down on paper because that is all the cripple knows how to do. That is how the cripple mourns.

  *

  The press joes were all billeted in the same snug gasthaus not far off the Place de Republique. The lot of them would loiter in the cozy little bar, gather round the fire trying to rub some warmth into their hands and backsides. Some would be fresh back from the field, wearing clods of mud on their boots like medals of valor, heedless of the strained tolerance in the smile of the waistcoated old proprietor cleaning up after them, feeling their day or two at The Front represented a marvel of survival against all odds. They were all so God–blessed young and fresh, bubbling with sensations new to them: the elation of epic adventure, the conviction of serving some grand cause, the exhilaration of having survived weapons discharged in anger. They felt invulnerable and purposeful and flush with the naïve idea that the story would, eventually, have a happy ending.

  I would sit in a corner, alone, silent. I’d hear the giddy back–and–forth among them and it would strike my ear with the tinny, tired sound of an old gramophone record played too often. When I heard it one time too many, I would grab what was left of my bottle of cognac and go out into the evening, limping along the snow–dabbed walks of Liege.

  Electric trams trundled across the Place de Republique bringing people home from their day’s labors. On the banks of the Meuse, gray–haired couples walked their dogs along the promenade, watched the barges chug along the ice–garlanded river beneath the rows of tidy mansard–topped buildings, a rainbow of alternating red brick, gray stone, and white–washed plaster still visible in the dusk. And from a distance, as the lowering sun cast cosmetic shadows, one could not see how much stained glass was missing from the arched windows of the St. Paul Cathedral; the spires, still intact, could yet touch the heart of the faithful and even impress the Godless. If you walked these places, as I did, the ancient city seemed unperturbed and vital, its boulevards and places looking much as they had centuries ago.

  But I always walked past because they were a lie. The truth was in those desolate swaths where the Germans had dug in and refused to let the old city go; places where the Yanks had had to blast them out. Those neighborhoods looked like so many other neighborhoods in Europe, and like entire villages and towns and cities reduced to mammoth cairns along the Allied axes of advance, from the German frontier all the way back the hundre
ds of kilometers to the beaches at Normandy.

  The last of the light would leave the sky and I would stumble through the blackout amidst the felled walls and heaps of broken brick until I found some fallen beam or pile of stone, brush away the snow and take a cold, uncomfortable seat. From above, with the regularity of the nightfall, would come the sputtering of flying bombs and, with each, one could feel the city take a breath…waiting to see if it would continue on overhead to fall on the docks at Antwerp, or perhaps put–put its way further on to London. But there were times when the engine would suddenly lapse into silence, and the city would steel itself and gird for the inevitable detonation and trembling of earth, and the sound of the sirens and clanging bells of ambulances and fire crews.

  Each explosion told me how hollow were the trumpeted claims of the war ending by Christmas. The war would not end by Christmas, or by the end of the year…or, I sometimes mused, ever. There would be no happy ending. Oh, there might be treaties and truces, a fleeting impression of peace, but there would always be someone to play the Hun and it would begin again. From deep in the bottle of cognac, a vision came to me…an endless line of march in an endless war; an eternal pursuit of the Hun – unwilling to surrender – in a fighting retreat that girdled the world, round the equator and from pole to pole. As the last intact building collapsed in rubble, the last soldiers on either side would fall dead. The dark and the cold would draw across the ruinate like a funeral shroud, and along I’d come hobbling, the crippled scrivener setting down a eulogy for the world though there’d be no one left to attend the wake.

  That, my friends, is as alone as you’ll ever feel; as purposeless as a human being can be.

  Colonel Joseph P. Ryan of the Judge Advocate’s office in Liege stopped by my corner of the gasthaus bar where I was trying to cut my liquor haze as well as my shivers with several steaming cups of coffee. He looked down on me with a mix of pity and puzzlement.

  “You all right?” He brushed the snow from my shoulders.