Casualties of War: The Advocate Trilgy

by Bill Mesce

  “Respect?”

  He seemed pleased I understood. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “Thanks?”

  “He told me you’ll be goin’ down to Wiltz tomorrow with the other guys. You know; to help out. Look; who am I to you? Whosis, right? You don’t know me from Adam. You’re doin’ it for the signor. But, so you know, I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome, Lieutenant.”

  “Make it Dominick, ok? Friend of a friend and all that.”

  “All right, Dominick.”

  “Hey, Lieutenant!” Benjie hissed. “I gotta be gettin’ you back ‘fore we turn into punkins.”

  “My carriage awaits!” Sisto said with an unexpectedly fey flourish of his hands.

  I followed him back out onto the allure. The view from the keep seemed to strike him afresh, almost as if he was taken by it for the first time, and he came to a stop. He leaned against the wall, his head extended into a crenel, soaking up the view of iridescent snow and dark ranks of trees. His trunk rose and fell in a satisfied sigh, and he leaned back, one hand atop a merlon as he let his head fall rearward to take in the star–peppered dome overhead. “Jee–sus, it’s somethin’ out here, ain’t it?” he whispered, not out of fear of being overheard, but out of reverence. “The first clear night out here, I saw those trees and the sky was like this. I thought, this is Christmas tree Heaven. Back home, you can hardly see the stars. Sometimes, some of us’d go horsin’ around in the park at night, but even out there…”

  “It’s the glow from the city lights,” I explained. “It washes them out.”

  “Lieutenant,” Benjie urged.

  Sisto smiled regretfully in my direction, and began to follow the MP to the far turret.

  Something tugged at me. “Lieutenant!” I said, quietly calling after him and trotting along to close the distance. “It may not be my place…”

  He nodded I had permission to proceed.

  “As you say, I don’t ‘know you from Adam.’ But Harry Voss vouches for you, and that’s enough character in my book.” I cast a cautious look over Sisto’s shoulder at his escort.

  “Benjie, why don’t you go in out of the cold. I’ll be right behind you.” When the MP had disappeared into the turret, Sisto turned back to me, waiting.

  “You see,” I continued, “I also understand the instinct for self–preservation. And if that instinct should present itself, and do so by deception, and in so doing hurt Harry Voss either professionally or personally…I would take strong exception to that, laddie.”

  I waited for him to bridle with insult, to anger at the accusation. He merely nodded, then smiled with – and perhaps I flatter myself to ascribe the sentiment – respect. “The signor is almost like family to me,” he said softly. “I couldn’t hurt him without hurtin’ myself.” He pulled his glove off his right hand and extended it to me. I did the same and we shook. “Mr. V’s got himself a good friend. Ciao, signor.”

  I nodded a goodnight, then watched him step into the turret and follow his escort down into the darkness of the stairwell.

  CHAPTER FOUR: Lamentations

  “SO, THEY STARTED GOIN’ AT IT.” PFC Avram Kasabian said it with the mild impatience of someone who had just told me, “Well, four, you silly ass! That’s what comes from two plus two!”

  “You mean Major Joyce and Lieutenant Tully?”

  “I didn’t think I was invited to contribute to the discussion, so, yeah, Major Joyce and Lieutenant Tully.”

  Avram Kasabian had been the RTO (radio telephone operator) for the platoon commander assigned to reinforce the men detailed to take the crest of Hill 399 on the last attack Dominick Sisto’s battalion had made against the hill. Kasabian was a dark–complected, spindly, twenty–year–old who looked as if the burden of the 40 pound SCR–300 pack radio that was his charge would easily have bent him double. There was a wry quality to him, an inbred ironic lens which tinted every look, every word. His Aremenian parents, I later learned, had fled to America in the 1920s to escape the genocidal proclivities of the Turks. Now here was their American–born son sent back to Europe and fed into an even more insatiable maw. Private Kasabian did not strike me as a particularly insightful or philosophical lad, but I had the feeling he held a deep appreciation for that bitter twist of the family tree.

  I referred to my notes drawn from the inquiry report. “I see Lieutenant Tully still refused to comply.”

  “Well, he said he wasn’t goin’. Said he hadn’t gotten the colonel’s signal so fuck you.”

  “Those were his exact words?”

  “I wasn’t writin’ it down as quote a the day, but that was kinda the feelin’.”

  “If you could remember the exact words – ”

  “Listen, pal, I wasn’t payin’ all that much attention. I was still tryin’ to get Rainbow Six on the horn, and there was an ass–load of noise. Seems the whole kraut army was tryin’ to blow us into a million pieces at the time. So, I was a little distracted.”

  “As well as you can remember, then.”

  An annoyed sigh, an idle rasping rub of the patchy whiskers on his unshaven chin. “I remember him sayin’ no. The lieutenant – ”

  “Tully.”

  “ – yeah, he was goin’ on ‘bout all that crap that didn’t happen – like the air support that didn’t show up, and the TDs that didn’t show up – ‘n’ the major said somethin’ like, ‘Let’s not argue ‘bout it now, no sense goin’ into it now.’ Somethin’ like that. He – ”

  “Major Joyce?”

  “ – right, he said, ‘Look, they’re up there now!’ He was talkin’ ‘bout the assault detail at the top a the hill. ‘They’re up there now!’ ‘N’ Lieutenant Tully, he said he didn’t give a shit – ”

  “His words?”

  For the first time, the wry cock of Kasabian’s mouth became an earnest smile. “Oh, yeah! That I remember! ‘I don’t give a shit if they’re half–way to Berlin!’ He – the lieutenant – wasn’t goin’ up without the ‘go’ signal from the colonel ‘n’ that was that!”

  I weighed my next question carefully. Kasabian was one of the battalion’s “old men” from its days in Italy, as, so I understood, had been Tully. I certainly did not have the stature or cachet to presume to be judgmental. “I have to ask, Private Kasabian, as to the reason for Lieutenant Tully’s refusal.”

  Kasabian’s smile twisted in cruel amusement. “You’re dancin’ around askin’ me if the lieutenant went yellow.”

  “I’m just wondering as to the grounds for his – ”

  “Pal, you ever been in somethin’ like that? Find me somebody who wasn’t pissin’ into his boot ‘n’ I’ll find you a candidate for a Section 8.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll bet,” he pronounced caustically. “It was like this. The lieutenant told Joyce he’d probably lose half of us just gettin’ up to the jump–off line on the hill where the trenches were. Hell, we were gettin’ the shit kicked outta us just holdin’ there at the trees! He said he didn’t want to move us out ‘n’ have us get all chopped up just to get there ‘n’ find Rainbow Six comin’ down!”

  “The lieutenant’s refusal made the captain angry?”

  “Well, he was pissed.”

  “Meaning angry.”

  “Angry is: ‘Who took my matches?’ Pissed is: ‘I’m gonna grab your ear and peel you like a fuckin’ banana.’”

  I took a momentary pause to consider how such etymological parsing would present on the stand during a formal military tribunal. It would, I concluded, certainly be something to look forward to. “Did Major Joyce threaten Lieutenant Tully?”

  “You mean like, ‘Move out or I’ll blow your head off?’”

  “Naturally, I’d be interested in any statement of that sort – he didn’t make any such threat, did he? – but any threatening exercise of authority should be noted.”

  “You mean like he’d bring the lieutenant up on charges? Somethin’ like that?”

  �
��Anything. Did Major Joyce threaten the lieutenant with charges?”

  “Told Tully he’d relieve ‘im right then ‘n’ there ‘n’ bring ‘im up on charges.”

  “And still Tully refused?”

  “Lieutenant told Joyce to kiss his ass.”

  “Again, Private, were those his words?”

  “He said somethin’ like, ‘On whose authority?’ ‘N’ then right after that, ‘fore it got any further, I got Blue Six – that was Lieutenant Sisto – he’s on the horn tellin’ me him ‘n’ Rainbow Six and what was left of the assault detail on top a the hill were comin’ down. See? Lieutenant Tully knew what he was talkin’ ‘bout. If that fuckin’ Joyce – ”

  “Is that why Joyce didn’t prefer charges? Against Lieutenant Tully?”

  Avram Kasabian went blank–faced. He blinked a few times, puzzled. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what? I’m afraid – ”

  “Lieutenant Tully didn’t make it.” It was said with a certain veteran’s disdain for just how unaware I was of what had gone on that day.

  “No, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I, pal. The battalion was comin’ off the hill ‘n’ then they were comin’ ‘cross the firebreak. That’s all open ‘n’ the krauts just poured all kindsa shit down on ‘em. Whatever they had: mortars, artillery, the machine gunners up on the hill were rakin’ all that open ground. They were already in pretty bad shape, the companies comin’ off the hill. Christ, you kept lookin’ for more of ‘em to come outta the trees on the other side of the break but they didn’t come. They go through all that, now they had to make this break ‘cross open ground ‘n’ the krauts were really choppin’ ‘em up. They got maybe half–way ‘cross ‘n’ Lieutenant Tully sent us out to help bring ‘em in, help ‘em with the wounded, whatever we could do. ‘N’ he was out there with us, the lieutenant. That’s how they got ‘im.” A pause, the heavy eyebrows coming together. “He was all right, the lieutenant.”

  I let a respectful moment pass. “Colonel Porter’s wireless designation – his radio designation – you said that was Rainbow Six, correct?”

  “Headquarters was Rainbow, the major was Rainbow Six.”

  “And Lieutenant Sisto you said was – ”

  “Sisto’s company was tagged Blue, so he was Blue Six.”

  “And you said it was Blue Six – Lieutenant Sisto – who notified you that the men who had pressed the crest of the hill were coming down?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was Sisto himself on the radio?”

  “Some guy came on, identified himself as Blue Six. You wanna know I could reckanize his voice? Joyce and the lieutenant are screamin’ at each other, the kraut arty is comin’ in – ”

  “I understand.”

  “ – ya had to scream at the top a your lungs just to talk to the guy next to you – “

  “All right, then. You received a message from Blue Six notifying you that Lieutenant Sisto’s men were withdrawing from the top of the hill. You relayed this message to Major Joyce – ”

  “Who went bananas! I thought he was hot before with Lieutenant Tully? Joyce had a fuckin’ fit! He took the handset away from me – I thought he was gonna take my ear with it – told Sisto to repeat, then he ordered ‘im to hold. I don’t know what Sisto said but I guess it was kinda like another ‘Fuck you’ ‘cause Major Joyce got even more hot which I didn’t think was possible! The major started yellin’ into the phone: ‘Goddammit, Sisto, I told you to hold!’ He said he wanted to talk to Rainbow Six – Colonel Porter – ‘n’ then nothin’. Looked like he lost contact or Blue Six broke it off.”

  We were finished. I thanked Kasabian, but he remained in the chair, a dark thought clouding his face.

  “Something else, Private?”

  “You mind I throw somethin’ else in the pot?” After I nodded for him to proceed: “Joyce didn’t have us go out to help those guys. That was all Lieutenant Tully. He didn’t have to do that. They should give ‘im somethin’ for that. If I was Mrs. Tully, I don’t know it’d make me feel any better, but still…”

  As I assured him I would pass that last little item on – without knowing to whom I should pass it – we were interrupted by a knock at the door. Kasabian withdrew, tossing off an unimpressed salute to the officer who passed him in the doorway. The new entrant was a cadaverous–looking lad, so wan and skeletal in appearance as to, at first, appear much older than his 28 years. One expected to see that ashen face peeping out the upturned collar of a hospital dressing gown rather than the fleece of a flyer’s Irvin jacket, and topped off with a jauntily cocked garrison cap. Further heedless of the appearance of ill–health, he held the stub of a rank cigar tightly in tobacco–stained teeth.

  But that deathly pallor did not come from illness or injury. It came from long hours in the American underground Intelligence complex in Grosvenor Square poring over reconnaissance photographs, ciphers, telewire transmissions and the like. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” It was more a perfunctory courtesy than an apology.

  “Van Damm?”

  The perennially–fatigued eyes narrowed in curiosity. “You’re Owen, right? I don’t remember that we actually ever met.”

  “We met but we weren’t introduced. I attended some press briefings you conducted after the Normandy landings. You were still in London then.”

  “Sorry. You press guys all blur together to me. Like a bunch of gnats. Were you any less of a pain in the arse than those other guys?”

  “I doubt it. You did rather look as if you would’ve preferred to be doing something else.”

  “Anything else! Reporters always get it wrong.”

  “Because you people don’t always tell us everything.”

  “I know, but you even get the lies wrong!”

  We chuckled like two respectful opponents.

  “You were a lieutenant colonel then.”

  He arched his neck, cartoonishly brandishing the colonel’s eagle on his shirt collar. “Looks nice there, huh?”

  “Congratulations. Have a seat.”

  As Wiltz’s limited stock of cozy little inns and hotels had been commandeered by one unit or another of the 28th Division’s Headquarters staff, the arrangements concerning Peter Ricks, Andy Thom and myself consisted of installing us in the 600–year–old chateau commanding the ridge overlooking the deep–set Wiltz River dividing the town. A field hospital unit was operating in the chateau, having converted a number of the larger chambers into wards, but there was still ample room for the three of us to be quartered, and also for our interrogatory sessions. My particular situation consisted of a (gauging by the décor) lady’s sitting room now being used as a kind of doctor’s station, with scribbled medical charts in semi–organized piles on various occasional tables and overstuffed chairs.

  I nodded Christian Van Damm to the chairs recently vacated by Avram Kasabian and myself; two clam–shell–backed pieces upholstered in pink velveteen.

  Van Damm gave his designated seat a long look before settling uncomfortably into the deep cushions. “Jesus, I feel faggy in this thing.”

  “I should think the cigar offsets the feminine air.”

  He batted his eyelids. “Do you really think so?”

  “If it’ll make you feel better, feel free to spit on the floor.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Might I ask what brings you by, Colonel?”

  “Got my attention you’re down here on something for Harry Voss. You got Peter Ricks with you somewhere around here and another guy named Thom.”

  I was impressed. “How did you come to know all that?”

  “Pul–leeze, Owen,” as if I were asking a magician to reveal his trade secrets. “And Voss was always telling me how smart you are! Anyway, I knew about you from him, I know Peter Ricks, thought I’d stick my head in and say hullo.” He picked his garrison cap from his head – “Hullo!” – and dropped it back. “Actually – ” and now, like a magician who was revealing a truth “ �
�� I’ve been curious about you a long time. Since we have this mutual friend in ol’ Voss, I wanted to get a peep at you myself. That’s what we guys in the Spy Brigade do, ya know: peep.”

  “How did they ever drag you out of London? Harry always made it sound as if you were permanently entombed in that underground lair of yours.”

  “It wasn’t much, but I called it home,” he grinned, then his face rapidly grew more serious. “SHAEF put me at the head of a team to evaluate the way the field Intelligence officers are processing information.”

  “Might I ask why?”

  “You might ask.” He rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other – an eye–catching feat without the use of hands – studying me through the noxious plume of smoke. It would take an infinite degree of tolerance not to adjudge Christian Van Damm as an impatient, intolerant, insensitive boor and well he might have been. But in my few dealings with him – both directly and through Harry Voss – I found him to have one of the keenest analytical minds I’d come across. In that brief pause that shrewd intellect was weighing evidence, conjecture, and gut instinct as to how much to trust me. “This bothering you?” He shifted his jaw causing the lit end of the cigar to wave at me.

  “If I said yes?”

  “I’d say open a window. Ol’ Voss thinks pretty highly of you, Owen. But off the record, ok?”

  “I’m not here as a reporter.”

  “Helping a friend? Again?”

  “Again. So…” I mimed padlocking my lips.

  “Cute. I feel all warm and reassured. The official position on the fight in the Huertgen sector is that we are meeting unexpectedly stiff resistance. As a representative of the Allied Expeditionary Force, I am constrained from offering any differing appraisal without first clearing it with the proper HQ office. But, to a friend of ol’ Voss, I will tell you that my personal observation is I’ve never seen such a fucked up mess than what’s going on up there. What Ike’s G–2 passes him at Versailles is all nice and rosy but you don’t have to be Dick Tracy to see it doesn’t jibe with what’s happening in the Huertgen. I think what me and my team are going to find is like a kid’s game of Telephone.”