Ordinary Heroes (22 page)

"But why burn it?" I asked. "Because of this stuff about murdering Martin?"

"Well, of course that was my suspicion, at least at first." Bear stopped then, something clearly nagging him, perhaps a thought about how close he was to the boundaries of what he could properly disclose. "I suppose all I can say for certain, Stewart, is what David told me."

"Which was?"

"Oddly, we never had a direct conversation, your father and I, about what he had written. Even once I'd read it, he was clearly disinclined to discuss the events he'd described, and I understood. The closest we came was a day or two after the sentencing. Your father was going to remain under house arrest during the pendency of his appeal, but he was beginning to accommodate himself to the idea of five years at hard labor. I told him what criminal lawyers always tell their clients in this predicament, tha
t t
here was going to be another day, a life afterward, and that he might look back on all of this, years from now, with different eyes. And in that connection I brought up the manuscript, which at the moment I'd conveniently left in the safety of my new office in Frankfurt.

"`I think you should save it, Dubin,' I said to him. `If nothing else, it will be of great interest to your children. Surely, you can't pretend, Dubin, you wrote something like this just for me. And certainly not to reduce it all to ashes.' He pondered that, long enough that I thought I'd struck a chord, but in the end he stiffened his chin and gave his head a resolute shake. And at that point, Stewart, he gave me the only explanation I ever heard about his determination to destroy what he'd put on paper.

"My most desperate hope,' he said, Is that my children never hear this story.

Chapter
14.

STOP

November 16, 1944, still in Nancy Dearest Grace--

Sorry for the silence. As you can tell from the news reports, the troops are on the move again, and the pace of our work has picked up, too. There are battlefront incidents that by their nature are often urgent, and we know that the move to a new HQ may not be far off. Our hope is that it will be in Germany--better yet, Berlin.

I'm feeling more myself now than when I last wrote. You must be wondering about those letters I dashed off a couple of weeks ago, bracketing my little detour into "action." With the distance of time, I have decided to put th
e e
ntire experience behind me. That is what the old soldiers tell you to do: take the past as gone, and realize the chasm between war and normal life is wider than the Grand Canyon and not to be crossed. Darling, believe me, one day when this thing is over, I want you sitting beside me, so I can stroke your hair while I think over some of this. But please don't mind if it turns out that there's not much I care to say.

On a happier note, your most recent package, no. 15, arrived today. Only two of the sugar cookies were in pieces and I enjoyed them that way, too, believe me. Even better was the bottle of Arrid you sent, which I know is in short supply and thus made nie the envy of many. Because of the lack of fuel, hot water is a rarity, meaning few showers and baths. Let your brother know how much I appreciated the deodorant. Say what you like, but sometimes it is an advantage having your own department store. On that score, I'd like to request a favor. If George sees any film pack, size of 620, I'll take whatever he can find. My sergeant, Biddy, is quite the photographer and is having trouble getting film. He's probably the best fellow I've met in the service and I'd love to help him out.

Winter has come. The weather has gone from dank to bone-chilling. It is still raining, at least in name, but what falls now are icy pellets tha
t s
ting the skin and freeze solid within hours. I wear my woolen gloves when I am sitting at my desk, although the courtroom has a little heat. The cycles of rain and ice are far worse for the boys in the foxholes. Trench foot has become a plague. Estimates are that a third of the troops are suffering from it, many with cases so severe they have to be hospitalized. Patton has ordered 85,000 extra pairs of socks and is rumored to have lectured troops that in war, foot hygiene is more important than brushing your teeth. Overshoes are coveted. The boys out there continue to amaze me with their courage and determination.

Their hardships are at great remove from me, as I continue with the safe but dreary life of a lawyer in court. I do have one piece of news. My promotion came through yesterday (only four months overdue). I am now Captain Dubin, with the word "acting" removed from my title as Assistant Staff Judge Advocate. I put on my silver bars immediately and walked around all day feeling great satisfaction every time a lieutenant saluted as I passed.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, my love. I expect to be with you, by the fire, this time next year.

I love you and think of you always
,
David

O
ne afternoon in the second week in December a clerk dropped my mail call on my desk, three letters and a card. I wa
s s
tuffing them inside my tunic, to be savored in privacy later, when the postcard grabbed my attention. On one side was a black-and-white photo of a gabled structure, with narrow variegated spires and two concentric arches over the door. The tiny legend on the reverse identified the building as the synagogue at Arlon, the oldest in Belgium. But I was more astonished by the handwritten note there.

.

Dubin--

Am sorry we fool you. Robert says was no choice. You is good fellow. Please not to think bad of me. Perhaps we meet again when is not war. For Jew is ok to say Joyeux Noel?

G.

.

Gita Lodz's handwriting was pointed and not particularly tidy, just as I might have guessed. She had used English, knowing that a message in French might be months getting past the Army censors.

I read the postcard perhaps twenty times in the next day, trying to determine if it had any larger meanings. Why did she bother? Did I actually care? Eventually I began to wonder whether she was truly in Belgium or if this was another ruse, designed by
Martin. I asked a postal clerk if he could tell the mailing location of the card, which bore the purple circled stamp of the Army post office. A three-number code at the center was from the First Army Headquarters near Spa, Belgium.

After pondering, I sent a teletype to Teedle's headquarters at the i8th Armored Division, stating that I'd had a communication indicating where Martin might be. By now, the i8th had returned to combat, moving past Metz into Luxembourg where they were skirmishing with the Germans as they fell back toward the heavy concrete fortifications of the Siegfried line, ringing Germany. With the approval of General staff, only days after Martin had disappeared, Teedle had issued an order for Martin's arrest, bringing a formal end to my investigation. Thus relieved, 1 had been doing my best not to think about either Robert Martin or Gita Lodz, both of whom had misled me to my serious detriment. On my hangdog visit to Teedle the day Martin had decamped, I'd gotten the hiding I expected, but not simply for losing track of the Major. Patton was incensed about the explosions at La Saline Royale, and in Teedle's words, wanted "Martin's balls for Thanksgiving dinner." The raid on the dump had been planned by OSS in the fall, but, as it turned out, no one had given Martin permission to proceed now Apparently, it was an adventure he just couldn't stand to miss before absconding. Without coordination, it proved a tactical disaster. The Germans' 2,1st Panzer Division had been spooked by the massive fireball and curtailed its advance on the region near Marsal, unwittingly avoiding three American antitank battalions Patton had had lying in wait.

My message to Teedle brought a quick response. Late the same day, I was hauled out of court for an urgent phone call. Dashing upstairs, I found Billy Bonner on the other end. Teedle was apparently in range of an Antrac phone relay and wanted to talk to me personally. The sound quality on the field telephone was static-scratched and thin, and when Bonner went to get the General, the thunder of artillery resounded down the line.

"I have your goddamn teletype, Dubin," said Teedle without preliminaries, "and it's too fucking lawyerly, as usual. I need some details in order to contact VIII Corps. What kind of communication was it you received?"

"A card, sir."

"A postcard? The son of a bitch sent you a postcard? Who does he think he is, Zorro?"

"It was from the girl, sir."

His girl?"

"Yes, although I don't think she's really his girl, sir.

"Is that so? Dubin, you're turning out to be more interesting than I imagined. Well, whatever you call her, she's stuck to him like glue, right?"

"Oh, I expect she's with him, sir. I just doubt she'd do anything to jeopardize him. That's why I wasn't sure if I should bother you with this. I realize you've got your hands full, General, but the arrest is under your command."

"You did right, Dubin. And don't worry about us. We're kicking the shit out of these pricks. Not that it wouldn't be going even better if our President stopped mousing around with the Russians. We should be in Saarbriicken, but FDR's afraid if we move into Germany too fast Stalin will go batty." Teedle held up there, clearly reconsidering the wisdom of his remarks over an open telephone line. The heavy guns went off again in a second and the connection was lost.

A few days later, on December 15, I was in the officers' mess at about 7
:00
a
. M
., eating a breakfast of powdered eggs with Tony, when a pimply young orderly, a new recruit who took virtually every development as an occasion for hysteria, flew in to tell me that I was wanted in the signal office. It was Teedle, this time at the other end of a coded teletype writer. Once the signalman indicated I was present, the machine began spitting tape, which the code reader transferred with intense chattering onto the yellow bale in the machine.

"Bastard located," Teedle wrote. "Up near town of Houffalize in the VIII Corps sector. Robin Hood now. Whole merry band with him. Told VIII Corp
s c
ommand was sent by OSS to reconnoiter Germa
n p
ositions. Wish you proceed to Houffalize to arrest."

"Me?" I said this to the signalman, who asked if I wanted to transmit that response. I chose something more diplomatic, suggesting the duty might be better suited to the Provost Marshal.

"Negative. You will recognize subject," he wrote back. "Also know entire background. MPs here have combat responsibilities with POWs. We are fighting a war FYI."

I considered my alternatives, but ultimately responded that I understood my orders.

Teedle wrote, "Subject due back in 72 hours. Presently scouting behind enemy lines."

"How likely to return?'

"Very. Left girl behind. Proceed at once. Will notify London of imminent arrest."

I went immediately to Colonel Maples. With Teedle, I had been reluctant to raise technicalities, knowing he would not tolerate them, but there was a fundamental problem. I opened a copy of the Manual for Courts-Martial on the Colonel's desk to Rule 20.

BEFORE TRIAL-ARREST AND CONFINEMENT-WHO MAY ORDER:

METHOD-THE FOLLOWING CLASSES OF PERSON SUBJECT TO MILITARY LAW WILL BE PLACED IN

ARREST OR CONFINEMENT UNDER ARTICLE OF WAR 69, AS FOLLOWS:

OFFICERS-BY COMMANDING OFFICERS ONLY, IN PERSON, THROUGH OTHER OFFICERS, OR BY ORAL OR WRITTEN ORDERS OR

COMMUNICATIONS. THE AUTHORITY TO PLACE SUCH PERSONS IN ARREST OR CONFINEMENT WILL NOT BE DELEGATED.

In other words, Martin could only be arrested by someone directly under Teedle's command, a member of the i8th Armored Division. After some debate at the time the arrest order was issued, our staff had concluded that Teedle, rather than Winters at OSS, remained Martin's commander, because Martin had disobeyed the very order transferring him back. But surely I wasn't under the General. If so, I couldn't arrest Martin without jeopardizing the ensuing court-martial.

Maples pinched his thumb and forefinger through his long mustache, which had gone completely white in the last few months and now resembled a smear of shaving lather. As usual, he remained reluctant to buck Teedle and came up with a lawyerly solution. He would get Third Army G-1 to designate me to the i8th solely for the purpose of carrying out Martin's arrest.

"We'll have to button up the paperwork. But you best get up there, David. Patton won't be amused if Martin slips away again. What a peculiar situation." The Colonel wobbled his hoary head. "Human misconduct, David. There's more imagination and mystery there than in the world of art."

"May I take Bidwell, Colonel?"

"Yes, of course." He sent me off to find a replacement in court for the day.

By noon, Biddy and I had our papers and were once more on the road. It was dank, with fog again gathered like smoke over the hills, and we had full side panels mounted to the canvas top on the jeep. Houffalize barely showed up on the maps, but it was somewhere in the vicinity of Saint-Vith, about 15o miles away. We'd be approaching areas of serious fighting and figured we'd do well to make it there by sunset the next day. Not knowing exactly what we'd encounter, we traveled with full packs and winter overcoats.

As we neared Metz and the territory the Americans had taken in recent weeks, we encountered signs reading ACHTUNG MINEN, left behind by the retreating German Army. I was not sure if these were warnings for their own troops, or a form of psychological warfare. When we made a stop, I checked with units from the Sixth Armored Division, who reported that minesweepers had been over the roads, but otherwise to proceed with care.