The Winston Affair (5 page)

“Drive around it,” said Adams.

“Sir?”

“I said drive around it.”

“It's none of my business—”

“No, it isn't, Baxter. But if you're curious, I want to look at it.”

“At the hospital, Captain?”

“That's right—at the hospital.”

Baxter drove the jeep around the hospital twice, muttering to himself, while Barney Adams studied it searchingly and thoughtfully.

Wednesday 5.00 P.M .

People who meet in odd places for the first time wear masks. They are reborn when they shake hands, for each is new to the other, without history, mistakes or the heavy burdens of shared memories. In this case, however, Colonel Archer Burton, commanding officer of the General Hospital, had the advantage; he knew that Barney Adams was an infantry officer, new to the theater, and assigned by General Kempton to the Winston defense. He also knew that General Kempton had a good opinion of Adams, and that there was some kind of old family or army hierarchy relationship. And he knew that Adams had a service record that made him an asset to the speedy and proper conclusion of the case.

On the other hand, about Burton, Barney Adams knew nothing at all—and could just sense that faint tinge of irritation which marks an ambitious ex-civilian confronted by a Regular Army man.

In this, Adams was right. Burton was an older man, tall, commanding in appearance, and very conscious of himself. Even in this mercilessly hot and damp weather, his uniform was creaseless and spotless, and never for a moment was he unaware of his uniform. He touched buttons, felt his eagles, checked his belt with his fingertips, and constantly shot glances at sleeve and trouser leg. What deep and satisfying feeling his present command gave him, Barney Adams did not know—nor could he know why.

Yet in the huge, sprawling organism of the United States Army, Colonel Burton's story was not singular. He had enlisted in the army in 1940, an end-of-the-road action of defeat and despair. Before that, he had been a company physician for one of the smaller auto firms in Detroit. He accepted a tactful suggestion that he resign, after diagnosing a heart attack as acute indigestion and costing the company more money than they felt he was worth. Before that, he had eked out a poor living with a dwindling practice in Cleveland.

His career had been dogged by a combination of small talent and bad luck, and indeed even his error at the auto plant was a curious case which a much better physician might have misnamed. The fact that his Cleveland practice never netted more than three thousand dollars a year turned his ambitious wife into a carping, pushing shrew, and it was she who had pressed him to accept the offer in Detroit; inversely, his growing dislike for her persuaded him to respond to the mushrooming army's plea for physicians. His commission and his uniform gave him his first sense of worthiness or importance, and he soon discovered that while he was only a mediocre doctor, he did have a gift for command. The fortunate choice of several subordinates with organizing ability enabled him to rise to a position of importance and power.

Such, briefly, was his background; but unknown to Barney Adams, who, like so many infantrymen, had an overwhelming esteem for the caduceus on the colonel's lapel. So Adams was almost apologetic as he explained his difficulties at being flung into this case abruptly, and his subsequent bewilderment at finding no copy of the attending physician's medical report.

The colonel, cordial and smiling, had given Adams a chair, a cigarette and a glass of ice water. He himself stood at the other side of his office, calm and knowledgeable.

“That is wholly understandable, Captain,” Colonel Burton said. “Your bewilderment matched my own.”

“Sir?”

“I simply say that I was equally bewildered.”

“But surely you read the report?”

“That was the occasion of my bewilderment.” Colonel Burton smiled.

“Sir?”

“Well, I put it to you, Captain Adams. A general hospital is a vast and complex administrative task. This hospital is almost half a mile in length and we have six separate departments, or wards as we call them. Just to walk through this hospital on the most cursory consultive basis is half a day's work. We have two laboratories, four operating rooms. Hundreds of people do their work here, and their work must be supervised. This is not the States, Captain Adams. We have three wards of tropical diseases, malaria, cholera, plague, an assortment of dysenteries, jaundice, eczemas never encountered or dreamt of at home, ringworms, fungoids—in addition to the regular statistical ailments that every theater deals with. In addition, we serve as base general hospital for the Burma war—wounds, infections, invalidism and battle fatigue. That's a very quick survey—a good deal left out. Could you conceive of me dealing with this personally?”

“It's a big and complex job,” Adams admitted. “No commanding officer is expected to deal with his command in personal terms.”

“Precisely. Well, sir, this report you speak of was the responsibility of the commanding officer in the NP Ward.”

“NP Ward?”

“Neuro-Psychopathic. Shell shock and battle fatigue are considered old hat by the new disciples of Sigmund Freud.” There was an underplayed edge of contempt in his voice as he said this. “They would like a new science of medicine and a new language to go along with it.”

“Then you don't consider psychiatry a science?” Adams asked, his question unassertive and polite.

“Well, sir—I am not throwing psychiatry out of the window. Not for a moment. When you come right down to it, any general practitioner who is worth his salt practices psychiatry every day. So do you. So do I. But the science of medicine remains the science of medicine. When a machine is broken, you put it together. When a man is sick, you operate or you prescribe medicine. Germs are dirty, nasty little buggers, and you campaign against them the way you infantrymen go out against the enemy. We live in a real world, Captain. I don't like people who invent other worlds.”

“But to get back to that report, Colonel,” Adams reminded him.

“Yes—yes indeed. As I said, the report was the responsibility of the CO—a Major Kaufman. It was Major Kaufman who admitted him to the NP Ward in the first place—and without consulting me, Captain. No, sir. First thing I knew of it, Winston was in there.”

“Was he out of line, sir? I mean—is it a matter of hospital organization for you to be consulted on the admission of every patient?”

The colonel looked at Adams keenly, as if he had not actually seen him until now. Adams' face was placid. He lit another cigarette, offering one to the colonel, who refused.

“No,” Colonel Burton replied slowly, “I am not consulted on the admission of every patient. I think that is obvious, Captain. But neither is every patient a brutal murderer.”

“You feel that in this case Major Kaufman should have consulted you?”

“I feel that Major Kaufman does a good many things that would warrant consultation.”

“And did the major write a report on the case?”

“He did, Captain. He certainly did.”

“I'm sure you know, Colonel, that in the preparation of any major case for a general court-martial, medical reports that bear upon it are forwarded to the Judge Advocate.”

“I am aware of that procedure.”

“Then why wasn't Major Kaufman's report available?”

“Because I did not accept it! Because it consisted of mumbo jumbo dressed up in fancy language—and was not, in my estimation, an adequate or intelligent or scientific medical report.”

“I see.”

“I wonder if you do, Captain. Modern warfare is a little more than pulling a trigger or dropping a bomb. The Medical Corps is a necessary and honored part of the service.”

“I couldn't agree with you more heartily,” Adams said quietly. “I'm not quarreling with your actions, sir. I have neither the knowledge nor the right to do so.”

“Well sir, I suppose I'm touchy on this Winston business. No one likes to have a mess in his back yard.”

“May I ask, Colonel—did you request Major Kaufman to prepare another medical report?”

“I did.”

“And was a second report prepared?”

“It was not. Major Kaufman refused.”

“He refused? On what basis?”

“On the basis that his original report was competent and correct in all of its diagnostic details.”

“And did you take disciplinary action?”

“Not as such. You see, Captain, as CO in his ward, he has the right to stand by a diagnosis—as according to his knowledge. But I reported his action to Theater Headquarters. He has been on the list for promotion. I recommended that his rank be withheld. I also recommended that he be removed to another hospital as soon as a replacement could be found.”

“That seems severe, under the circumstances.”

“Does it? Discipline is as necessary here as in your own infantry company, Captain. I could not run this hospital for a day without discipline. And I damn well could not run the Jews in it without discipline.”

“I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir,” Adams said evenly.

“No—then perhaps you don't have these problems in the infantry. Come to think of it, you wouldn't. I have nine of them in my hospital—including every doctor in the NP Ward. Has it ever occurred to you to wonder how they all manage the medical degrees and the safe berths?”

“I wouldn't know, sir. I had six Jews in my company, but four of them were killed in action and the other two were shot up and sent back stateside—and do you know, I never thought to ask.”

The silence that followed was long, strained and heavy. Colonel Burton stared at the round, boyish face, the blue eyes and the soft red hair, and found nothing there to read, comprehend or resist. The captain sat in his chair, finished his cigarette and put it out.

“What are you after, Adams?” the colonel finally said.

“I am not
after
anything, sir—believe me. I was instructed to defend the life of a man I have never seen and about whom I knew nothing.”

“A murderer.”

“Yes. I did not choose his crime, sir. Neither did I choose the job of defending him—which I do not relish. Nevertheless, it's my job now. I would like a copy of Major Kaufman's report.”

“Am I permitted to ask your purpose, Captain? Winston was examined by a lunacy commission. He was found sane. What are you trying to rake up?”

“You were the head of that commission, Colonel Burton?”

“Entirely proper!”

“I didn't say it was improper. I am not arguing anything. I only want a copy of the medical report.”

“I don't have a copy.”

“Then I shall have to go to Major Kaufman.”

“Must I remind you that I am commanding officer of this hospital, Captain?”

“With all due respect, sir,” Adams replied, “may I remind you that I am defense counsel in a general court-martial? I have access to any pertinent material I desire—and to any officer or enlisted man in the United States Army, and no one has the right to interfere with my duties or tasks in this case.”

Again the silence, long and heavy, until Colonel Burton went to his desk, picked up his telephone and asked for Major Kaufman. He listened for a moment—then replaced the phone and told Adams that Kaufman had just left the hospital.

“Tomorrow is his day off,” the colonel said.

“Then I will be in to see him on Friday, Colonel Burton.”

Outside, Baxter was dozing in the jeep. “Where now, Captain?” he yawned.

“Where I can get a double Scotch and wash a taste out of my mouth.”

Wednesday 9.20 P.M .

At a few minutes past nine, Barney Adams decided to shave, for it would save a little time in the very early morning he had planned. He was standing in his room at the Makra Palace, in front of a washbasin carved out of green alabaster, and looking unhappily at himself in a great baroque mirror, when there was a knock at the door.