Authors: Brian Haig
“A fella can’t ask for much more than that, can he?” “How damaging will it be if the request is denied?”
“It creates an opening for a good defense attorney to poke a few holes.”
“Well, nothing more to be done about that. Need anything else from me, Sean?”
“No, sir. But thanks for asking.”
He hung up, and I hung up, and it took a few minutes before I dozed off again. Major General Thomas Clapper was the closest thing to a friend I had in this case. He had taught me military law way back when he was a major and I was a brand-new lieutenant going through my basic officer’s training. If I wasn’t the worst student he ever had, the other guy must have been a stone-cold putz. One can only imagine his dismay when, four or five years later, I approached him to ask if he would sponsor my application to law school and the JAG Corps. I’ve never understood what went through his brain at that instant, but he said yes, and the rest is legal history.
Unlike my own lethargic career, Thomas Clapper was always on a fast track. He was now the two-star general who headed up the corps of Army lawyers. This is the largest law firm in the world, with offices spread around the globe, handling everything from criminal to contracts to real estate law. It is a corps of over a thousand military lawyers and judges and more than twice as many legal specialists of various varieties. It is a corner of the Army few people know exists, filled with grating personalities, oversize egos, and rawly ambitious lawyers. It takes an iron-fisted tyrant to keep all those egos in check, although Clapper was seen as a benevolent dictator, and thus was very beloved by the rank and file. Although not by me. Not at that moment. Clapper just happened to be the guy who threw my name into the hat to head this pre-court-martial investigation, and I knew he was calling to assuage his guilt. I wasn’t about to offer him any clemency. I wanted his guilt to be so massive it gave him walloping headaches.
The next call came about an hour and a half later, and the caller identified himself as Jeremy Berkowitz. Even at 3:30
A.M
.,
I recognized the name. Berkowitz was a reporter for the
Washington Herald
who had earned a handsome reputation by exposing lots of embarrassing military insights and scandals. That call went something like this:
“You’re Major Sean Drummond?”
“Says so on my nametag.”
“Heh, heh, that’s a good one. My name’s Jeremy Berkowitz. A common friend gave me your number.”
“Name that friend, would you? I’d like to choke him.”
This resulted in another nice chuckle, and it struck me that everyone in that time zone back in Washington was filled with good humor that day.
“Hey, you know the rules. A good reporter never discloses his sources.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been assigned by the
Herald
to cover the Kosovo massacre. I thought it would be a good idea for us to get to know each other.”
“I don’t.”
“You ever dealt with the working press before?”
“A few times.”
“Then you should know that it’s always a good idea to cooperate.”
“And in turn, you’ll cooperate with me, right?”
“Exactly. I’ll make sure your side of things gets printed, and I’ll make sure you’re well treated in our stories.”
Click! Oops, the phone accidentally fell into the cradle. Actually, it landed in the cradle because I don’t like being threatened, and if you read between the lines that was exactly what he was trying to convey. Of course, it was a dumb, petulant thing to do. On my part, that is. I should’ve soft-pedaled and let him down gently. But then I would have had to act like a tease, because I wasn’t about to leak any damned thing.
Not that I have anything against reporters. The military needs good watchdogs for it to remain the marginally healthy institution it is, and the press happens to fulfill that function. It doesn’t pay to antagonize or mistreat them, but like I said, I was tired and not thinking straight.
My mood had not improved when, at 6
A.M
., I entered our wooden building, where Captains Delbert and Morrow were hovering over a couple of steaming cups of coffee and awaiting my arrival. Both looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and I resented that.
“Morning,” I said, or barked or growled. Whatever.
“Ouch,” said Morrow.
And wouldn’t you know that at just that moment the phone rang again.
“Hello,” I said, lifting it up.
“Major Drummond, this is Captain Smith. Remember me? We met yesterday.”
“Yeah, I think I remember you. You’re the short, chubby guy with the screechy voice, right?”
“I called Colonel Masterson, the military judge with jurisdiction over this command. I told him you blocked me from representing my client and asked for his judgment on this matter.”
“And he said?”
“That if you ever do that again he will personally register a complaint with the District Court back in D.C. and seek to have you disbarred.”
“I’m deeply ashamed of myself,” I boldly admitted.
“You should be. Now my client told me you taped the interrogatory. I would like a copy delivered to my office first thing this morning.”
“Did the judge say I had to do that?” “I didn’t ask him. I will, if you insist.” “I insist.”
“Have it your way,” he said, almost choking with anger, and then hung up.
Now it might sound perverse, but Smith’s call really brightened my mood. The thing about big investigations like this one is that you have to get people’s attention.You have to show people you’re a rampaging barbarian, and then anybody with any inkling of guilt immediately starts racing for the nearest lawyer and looking for protection. Lieutenant Colonel Will Smothers had done exactly that. His troops watched him like a hawk and by now there were very few people on this compound who did not know he’d been called in and interrogated. And Captain Smith was now doing more of my work, making sure the local legal community was aware that I play hardball. Pretty soon, everybody around here was going to be walking on eggshells. And when people walk on eggshells, if you listen real close, you can hear all those little cracking sounds.
“What was that about?” Delbert asked.
“Wrong number,” I said.
The door crashed open and in came the mobile hurricane known as Imelda, followed by two more assistants carrying trays piled high with steaming eggs and bacon, and something the troops disparagingly call shit-on-a-shingle, which truly does resemble its namesake but is actually a dried-out muffin covered with greasy gravy and chunks of ground beef. In the entire arsenal of Army foods, this is the one most likely to get you a quadruple bypass.
Imelda gave Delbert and Morrow a dreadful look and had her assistants carry the trays to a conference table that had been set up in a spare office. Morrow and Delbert traded conspirational glances, and I could tell they had cooked up something the night before. Wasn’t all that hard to figure out, either. They’d obviously considered the proposition that a unified front might be enough to overpower Imelda. She stared back at them through her gold wire-rimmed glasses and said not a word, but her tiny little fists began clenching and unclenching. It was kind of a watered-down version of the OK Corral.
I walked to the table and launched voraciously into my Army-prepared breakfast, watching out of the corner of my eye to see who’d crack first. Actually, that’s not true. I knew damn well who’d succumb. I just wanted to see how long it took Delbert and Morrow to figure that out and how ungracefully they extricated themselves: with their tails stuck between their legs, or dripping blood all the way to the conference table.
Imelda said,“Are you two gonna eat those damned breakfasts, or act like a coupla spoiled pussies?”
The good defense attorney acted as though she were speaking to nobody in particular. “I usually have yogurt, oatbran muffins, and juice for breakfast.”
Imelda said back to her, “You want me to tell that mess sergeant to whip you up a cup of that latte crap, too?”
Delbert started to open his lips, wisely thought better of it, and just stood there shuffling his feet.
Morrow’s eyes darted down in time to see Delbert’s feet do their little retreat dance, and then she covered her own defeat with a halfhearted, “But there was a time when I really loved eggs and bacon.”
“Then you learn to love it again, because that’s all that mess sergeant makes.”
Not two seconds later, Delbert and Morrow were seated beside me, taking mighty bites and silently praying Imelda would go away and die.
“What’s on for today?” Delbert asked, diverting his eyes from Morrow’s, which were at that moment bathing him with a world-class gutless weasel look.
I said, “I thought we’d spend our morning talking with the group chaplain, then the group commander.”
“The chaplain?” Morrow asked, still staring at Delbert. “Sure.”
“Why the chaplain? When are we going to talk to Sanchez and his men?”
“Soon enough.”
They both nodded. They didn’t agree, but they nodded. That’s one of the things I love about Imelda. She sucked all the feistiness right out of them.
The chapel was located in a large tent, long and broad enough to hold about forty chairs. The group chaplain, Major Kevin O’Reilly, was actually on his knees, praying, when we came in. We waited patiently for about three minutes while he finished up, then he walked to the rear of the tent where we were gathered.
As one might anticipate from a Special Forces chaplain, he didn’t look much like a priest. He had a broad face, a pugilist’s nose, and big, strong hands that squeezed painfully when we shook and introduced ourselves. I couldn’t imagine that people were inclined to act real sinful in his presence. I didn’t want to even imagine what kind of acts of contrition he exacted in his confessions.
“Father, thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” I said. “Would you like to do this here?” he asked, waving around the chapel.
“No. Why don’t we walk around?”
“Fine.”
So we began strolling through the dusty streets of the big Tuzla compound, where several thousand soldiers and airmen were at that moment in a frenzy of cleaning up and preparing for another day of waging a nonwar against the Serbs.
“How long have you been with the unit?” I asked.
“Four years.”
“That’s a long time. You must like it.”
“Sure.”
“What do you like about it?”
“These are good boys, Major. There’s an image out there of Special Forces troops being wild,rowdy hooligans that’s completely out of character. Most of these men are good family people.”
“I guess Captain Sanchez is Catholic, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is. A good one, too.”
I had already known his religion from his personnel file but wanted to lead into this obliquely.
“You know his family?”
“Very well. His wife, Stacy, and both kids. Mark is seven, and Janet is two. I baptized her.”
“Have you heard from his wife?”
“We’ve talked a number of times these past few weeks. It’s very troubling having Terry’s name splashed across the front pages as the man who commanded a massacre.”
“I imagine so,” I said, and I meant it.
“Three other members of that team were Catholic also, so I’ve been busy with all the families.”
“Of course. Now, Father, if you don’t mind, I’m going to ask a few questions. If you feel they’re too sensitive or I’m infringing on your clerical confidences, please feel free to tell me.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” he said.
“How would you describe the command environment here in the Group?”
He contemplated that a moment, and I sensed that his hesitation wasn’t obfuscation but because he wanted to get this just right. He finally said, “On the whole, pretty good. Special Forces soldiers, you know, are older than you find in regular units, and the men are rigorously tested before they get to wear the beret.”
“And if you could only use one word?”
“Gung ho.”
I smiled, then he smiled. I said, “How about another word?” “Okay, troubled.”
“Why troubled?”
“Because these are can-do men with strong consciences. It’s very taxing to be around all these Kosovar refugees. Back in America, you see the images on TV, but it’s very rending on the nerves to have to witness firsthand what’s happening on the other side of that border.”
“Right, of course. I imagine that has a dampening effect on morale.”
He gave me a very trenchant look.“Dampening? Major, some of these men can’t sleep at night.”
“Have you had to do a lot of counseling?”
“We’ve had one suicide and one attempted suicide since we’ve been here. My days are filled with counseling.”
“So you’d say the men are frustrated?”
“I suppose that’s as good a word as any.”
“Did you have to counsel Terry Sanchez or any of his men?” He stared off at a lumbering C-130 that had just taken off from the airfield and was beginning its climb to altitude. Finally he said, “I’m afraid I’d be uncomfortable answering that.”
“Okay, do you think the frustration you referred to might have caused that team to crack?”
“That’s really just the same question parsed a little differently, isn’t it?”
“Father, I’m asking off the record, one soldier to another.” “Okay, I don’t believe Terry’s boys did it. However, the pressures are certainly there.”
Like hell, he wasn’t saying they did it. That was exactly what he was saying, although I couldn’t tell if he knew that for a fact, or just suspected they had and assigned it a reason, like everybody else in the world was doing.
“What can you tell me about Smothers’s battalion?”
“It’s a great unit. It should be, though. He’s a first-rate commander, and there’s a lot more veterans in his unit.”
“Veterans?”
“Yes, you know. A lot of his men saw duty in the Gulf, Somalia, Haiti, Bosnia.”
“Why so many veterans in his battalion?”
“As I said, it’s a very good unit, very reliable.”
“I’m sorry, I still don’t get it.”
“How much do you know about the Special Forces culture?” he asked.
“Just hearsay.”
“Well, it’s very inbred. The Tenth Group has a European orientation, so the men have specific language skills and regional training. You don’t take a man from the Tenth Group and move him to say, the First Group, which specializes in Asia. Many men spend their whole careers in this unit.”