The Winston Affair (12 page)

Gunther cut in, “If you have a question, ask it. This is not a forum.”

“I was merely trying to explain, sir, that my readers would ask this question—is there any justice apart from might? Can there be such justice?”

Gunther hesitated, unsure of himself now that the focus had been narrowed.

General Kempton said, not unkindly, “Who do you direct that at, Captain Adams or myself?”

“Captain Adams, sir, since he stands for the defense.”

Watching the man, Adams thought again of the different worlds that Kaufman had specified. This man did not stand upright; out of training and habit, his muscles had lost the ability to hold him fully upright in the presence of white men. His knees were bent just a trifle, his shoulders bent just a trifle, his neck bowed just a trifle—even as his voice was muted, the words and meaning separated from the tone, which was carefully calculated not to give offense.

“I think,” Adams answered slowly, “that justice can only exist apart from might. A result provided by power and necessity does not lie within my definition of justice.”

He felt pompous and foolish after that reply, yet facing the man as he was, he didn't know what else he might have said.

The press conference went on, but the dark-skinned reporter did not ask any other questions.

Friday 5.00 P.M .

When the press conference had finished, General Kempton asked Adams to remain for a few minutes. Adams sat down gratefully, exhausted in every bone and muscle of his body. General Kempton, observing him thoughtfully, asked if he had ever been the focus of a press conference before.

“No, sir,” Adams replied. “This is the first time. May I smoke?”

“Help yourself, Barney.” He lit the cigarette for Adams, and added, “Being shot up and cited never gave you anything like this. It takes a murder case.”

Adams nodded, drawing on the cigarette with pleasure. He stared across the room.

“Done in?” the general asked.

“Yes, sir. I've been doing a lot of thinking. I'm not used to that.”

“And what have you been thinking?”

“One thing and another. I've been thinking, sir, that I have killed better than twenty men—but I'll never stand trial for it, will I?”

“That's a hell of a note, Barney,” the general said lightly. “You're the last man on earth I'd pick to go bitter on me.”

“I'm not bitter, sir. Just tired.”

“Out here a man goes stale quickly, if he allows it. Don't allow it, Barney. You've been too much with yourself.”

“That's a question of time, sir.”

“Barney, believe me, I know just how little time you have to dig into this thing. But you know you can't cram twenty-four hours a day for an exam. There's a point of saturation—then waste. Now look, tomorrow night there's a senior officers' dance at the mess barracks. There's a fine four-piece combination that flew in from Africa—anyway, they tell me it's good. There'll be some pretty girls and good company. I want you there.”

Adams shook his head. “No—I can't, sir.”

“You can and you will.”

“Look, sir, I have to put my case together. I have two days to do a week's work. I just can't.”

“I'm going to see you there, Barney. I'm going to insist. And look here—do you really believe you can bring Winston off?”

“I believe I've got a fighting chance, sir.”

The general sat down behind his desk and drummed on the wood with his fingers. Then, without looking at Adams, he said, “Don't put your hopes too high.”

“It's not a question of hopes, sir.”

“No? What then?”

“I have a case. I'm not empty-handed, sir.”

“I didn't think you'd go into court empty-handed, Barney. I just—well, you're taking this damned seriously.”

“Shouldn't I, sir? Didn't you take it seriously when you brought me into it?”

“Yes, yes, of course I did. I want a defense put up, a good one. But damn it to hell, you're defending a confessed murderer!”

“I'm aware of that, sir.”

“All right.”

“Is that all, sir?” Adams asked.

“All?” Kempton asked—as if he had only just noticed Barney Adams. “Yes, I suppose so. Unless you need something. Don't hesitate to ask.”

“I think I've been well provided.” Adams smiled, rising.

“Good. And I like the way you handled yourself today.”

“Thank you, sir. I think I did the Scout Movement credit.”

“Hell, Barney,” the general said, getting up and coming around his desk, “you always were something of a Boy Scout. But don't play it too earnestly with me, because the truth of it is we're neither of us as stupid or simple as we act.” He put one arm around Adams' shoulders and said, “God damn it, I'd give up these silly stars and a year or two of my life too—just to have been the regimental commander who had your company in his outfit.”

For the first time it occurred to Barney Adams that he was beginning to dislike General Kempton.

Saturday 3.18 A.M .

Barney Adams awakened out of the dream; and he lay there in his bed under the mosquito netting, his pajamas damp to his body, the night heat clammy and oppressive. It occurred to him, as such things do, that he might find a moment to tell Major Kaufman about his dream. He had heard that dreams reproduce the incidents of life only symbolically, but this dream was not symbolic. He dreamed it over and over, and each time he was dreaming about something that had happened. Even during the dream, a part of himself knew that the thing had happened, and he felt a sort of resentment when the dream departed from or changed the original reality.

He would dream about Gabowski's mother, whom he had never seen, and he knew that part was contrivance. For Gabowski's mother, Adams in his dream created a short, stout, gray-haired woman with a sweet face and watery blue eyes. She wore an apron of yellow and white checked material, and she was always cooking as he saw her, beating eggs or mixing a cake or scraping fish. For some reason he had decided that fish was a favorite food in Gabowski's home, perhaps because when he himself was a child they almost never had fish on their table, perhaps because Gabowski's background had to be so different from his own.

Howsoever, each time he dreamed he made the same mother for Gabowski, until she became so familiar and real that he half believed in her, and wondered whether or not Gabowski had shown him a picture of the woman. If Gabowski had shown him such a picture, Adams could not recall the occasion; but this did not surprise him. He knew that he had developed the ability to forget things he did not desire to remember.

On four different occasions Barney Adams had received letters from Mrs. Gabowski, and each time she had begged him not to tell Gabowski that she was writing to his company officer. She knew about her son's sensitivities, and was as careful as she could be not to cause him embarrassment. She wrote a painful scrawl, was a poor speller, and did strange things with a language she had not been born to, but with all this there was somehow in her letters an almost courtly grace and perception that moved Adams deeply. Each letter ended with a little blessing and prayer for Captain Adams' health and happiness. In the first letter, Mrs. Gabowski apologized for her presumption in offering the prayer, for she was a Catholic and she knew—perhaps in her mind she classified all commissioned officers so—that Captain Adams was a Protestant. But when Adams wrote back thanking her for the prayer, she made no further reference to the matter.

It was not until the fourth letter, evidently, that Mrs. Gabowski felt sufficiently comfortable in their acquaintance to bring up the matter of the vitamins. She informed Barney Adams, with many apologies, that she had taken the great liberty of sending to him, under separate cover, a bottle of 500 Unicaps. Her handwriting became even worse as she begged him to do something she had no right to ask, to see that Gabowski took a vitamin tablet every day. She explained how much this would mean to both herself and her son, and she also explained that it would have done her no good to have sent the bottle directly to Gabowski. He would be ashamed to carry a bottle of vitamins with him, and he would throw it away first chance he had.

Barney Adams knew that this was so. Gabowski was a round-faced, pink-cheeked boy of nineteen years. He was short, chubby, and gentle as a lamb. Where the other men grew respectable black and brown and red whiskers in the rain and mud and foxholes, Gabowski put forth a colorless, soft stubble. Where the other men smoked whatever they could lay hands on, Gabowski went into a fit of coughing every time he lit a cigarette. And the one time Gabowski got drunk on red wine, he passed out and had to be carried back to the company area.

Adams was trapped. There was no way out Day after day, bound by the silence of honor and duty beyond the call of duty which a woman had placed upon him, he had to find Gabowski and, with threats and rank, force him to take a vitamin pill.

There was the night in Italy when he crawled up to Lieutenant Jacob's position and said, “Where in hell's name is that God damned Gabowski?”

Adams guarded a secret that was no secret at all. The lieutenant kept a straight face as he told Adams that their line to artillery had been cut somewhere, and Gabowski and Winnaker had gone out along the line to repair it.

“They'll be back in a few minutes, I think, sir. Why don't you wait?” the lieutenant asked.

“I'll go along the line,” Adams said, and he started off, bending low, running the line through his gloved fingers. The vitamins bulged in his pocket.

It was very quiet at first. Adams was moving back, and he had just decided to walk upright when some shelling began. He dropped to his face. There were only four rounds. Then he crawled along the wire and his outstretched hand touched a face. He knew it was Gabowski's face, and it was upside down, as if Gabowski were standing on his head.

Adams began to tremble. He pulled off a glove, but his hand was shaking so that he could hardly put it into his pocket to get out his lighter. When the lighter flared, he saw the wet red stump of Gabowski's neck, the head imbedded in the mud on its silky yellow hair.

When he dreamed, it was at this moment that he awakened, leaving this final recollection etched sharply and precisely. Now, under the mosquito netting, he rolled over onto his stomach, put his face in the pillow, and began to cry.

Saturday 8.40 P.M .

At the mess barracks, Barney Adams said to Corporal Baxter, “Do you have a date tonight, Corporal?”

“I got a sort of tomato at Conga Flats. She's good for tonight.”

“Take the jeep and enjoy yourself.”

Baxter protested. He had developed a half-protective attitude toward the captain, and wanted to know how Adams would get home.

“I'll pick up a ride. Take off.”

The barracks was brightly lit, the tables rearranged to form a good-sized dance floor. The four-piece combination from back home was very good indeed, and when Barney Adams entered, it was playing “South of the Border.” The song had always produced a sentimental reaction in him; it was like hearing “There's a Long, Long Trail A-Winding,” which went much further back but touched him the same way.