The Captains (43 page)

And he was surprised at Lieutenant Bennington T. Morefield's behavior during the prosecution testimony. He had expected objection to practically everything the CID agents said, as well as the quoting of arcane legal principles which would be beyond the understanding of the court-martial officers.

He did nothing of the kind. He didn't challenge the facts at all. The court could have no question in their minds that Captain Parker did in fact shoot the officer of the 24th Infantry who couldn't find it in himself to stand and fight. The facts concerning who shot up the tank, the second charge, were even more clear, and General Harrier was surprised that Morefield didn't even try to muddy those waters, to try to form a reasonable doubt, as much as he could, as Harrier would have done had he been in his place.

But this JAG lieutenant didn't. He as much as admitted that Parker had indeed blown the other tank away.

The only thing he did, Harrier realized, was impress upon the court that the enlisted witnesses against Captain Parker testified against him with great reluctance and thought rather highly of him.

He asked each of them the same question: “Now, I realize that no one wants to go into combat, but if circumstances made it necessary for you to go back into combat, under the circumstances in which these events allegedly occurred, would you be in any way reluctant to serve under Captain Parker?”

And the answer was always the same: “No, sir.”

“Even if the allegations against Captain Parker are true?”

“No, sir. Or yes, sir. I mean, Captain Parker is a good officer.”

“You would have no fear that Captain Parker would go berserk and turn any weapons under his control on you, instead of the enemy?”

“No, sir.”

When the defense's turn came, Morefield introduced classified after-action reports, which painted a clear picture of confusion, chaos, and cowardice on the battlefield, and which in three instances mentioned that Tank Company, 24th Infantry, had held its positions when the rest of the regiment had “withdrawn without orders.”

Score one for the defense, Harrier thought.

The next round, Harrier concluded, was lost. Colonel Howley, the regimental commander, who should have gone to bat for Parker, didn't. Howley hadn't brought the charges against him. The goddamn provost marshal had. Either Howley hadn't known, at the time, what Parker had done—which was damned unlikely—or he had known and lent his tacit approval as something made necessary by the situation. If that was the case, he had a moral obligation to help Parker now. But Colonel Howley apparently lost his nerve once he got on the witness stand. If it had been his intention to do Parker any good, he failed. All he testified was that Parker was a good tank company commander.

On cross-examination, he discounted the chaos, confusion, and cowardice. He probably thinks it was a reflection on him, Harrier decided. Colonel Howley stated that he could conceive of no situation in which he, or any other combat commander, would have to resort to shooting an officer on the field of battle.

(Three years later, sitting on a secret Selection Board for Brigadier Generals, General Harrier would cast a nay vote regarding Colonel Howley. A single “nay” vote is sufficient to deny an officer the star of a general officer.)

“The defense calls Major Craig Lowell,” Lieutenant Bennington T. Morefield said, softly.

It occurred to Harrier for the first time that the officers on the court just might interpret Lowell's appearance the wrong way; they might decide he was appearing with the blessing of himself and the command structure. Harrier felt the eyes of the members of the court flicker over to him, wondering if this was indeed a message from on high.

Lowell's salute to the court-martial would have done credit to a cadet at West Point. His uniform was crisply starched and his boots glistened. The Combat Infantry Badge with Star (Second Award) glistened on his chest.

“Major Lowell,” Lieutenant Morefield said, “you have been called as a character witness in this case. You know the accused? And if so, will you point him out?”

Lowell pointed to Parker.

“Let the record show that Major Lowell pointed out the accused Captain Parker,” Morefield said. Then he turned to Lowell. “Major, you don't know what happened on the dates in question, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“You don't know any more about what really happened than I do, than the officers of the court know, than my learned opponent, the prosecutor, excuse me, the trial judge advocate, knows, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“What we're all trying to do here today, Major, is to reach the facts in this case. And once we have the facts, to weigh them, to decide whether or not Captain Parker's actions were detrimental to good military order and discipline.”

“Objection!” the trial judge advocate said, jumping to his feet. “What we are trying to determine here is whether or not the accused is guilty of violation of the 92nd Article of War, murder.”

The president of the court looked thoughtful.

“I'll sustain that objection,” he said. “The court will ignore in its deliberations Lieutenant Morefield's last comment.”

“With all respect, sir, I invite the court's attention to the 92nd Article of War, which states that murder, and also rape, are offenses in that they are detrimental to good military order and discipline. Shall I read the Article, sir?”

“We can read it ourselves, thank you,” the president said, icily, and when he read it, said: “I don't quite understand your point, Lieutenant.”

“Sir,” Morefield said, slowly, carefully, “the Congress in its wisdom has decided that the federal statutes which govern behavior of the civilian populace are not applicable to the military. Hence, the 1928
Manual for Courts-Martial
and its precedent Articles of War. The difference, sir, is that under federal law, and the laws of the several states, murder, to use that as an example, is considered to be an offense against—a commonly used phrase—‘the peace and tranquility' of the community. Military offenses, on the other hand, as the Congress has carefully spelled out, are those actions which are ‘detrimental to good military order and discipline.'”

“I think that's nonsense,” the trial judge advocate said. “Murder is murder.”

“Are you trying to tell me, Lieutenant,” the president of the court asked, “that murder is sometimes justified in order to preserve good military order and discipline?”

“What I am saying, sir, is that an action necessary to preserve good military order and discipline cannot be an offense.”

“That's absolute nonsense, and you know it!” the trial judge advocate said furiously. “I've never heard such absurd reasoning!”

“The objection has been sustained,” the president said.

“Sir, with all respect, the defense enters an objection for the record, and in order that the appellate authorities might have all the facts clearly before them, should there be a conviction at this level, the defense respectfully requests that the court reporter read back from his notes what my statement was, the objection to it, my counterargument, and the court's final decision.”

The court reporter read the whole thing back.

Clever as hell, Harrier thought. Morefield is giving them another chance to think over what he said. And there's that threat of review.

General Harrier had been curious when Captain Philip S. Parker IV, on being advised that a Board of Inquiry had recommended his trial before a general court-martial and that the general had approved the recommendation, had requested that Lieutenant Bennington T. Morefield, Judge Advocate General's Corps, 45th Division, be assigned as his defense counsel.

Whatever he was, Parker wasn't stupid, and there had to be some reason he had asked for the services of a specific lieutenant, when he would have been able to pick any of the majors and lieutenant colonels of the IX Corps JAG office to defend him.

General Harrier had made discreet inquiries about Lieutenant Morefield, and learned that he was regarded as a smart-ass Harvard Law School type. He had been a deputy U.S. attorney in New York before being called into the service, where he had promptly earned a reputation at Fort Polk, Louisiana, for getting his accused off. Lieutenant Morefield had been sent to Korea with a subtle recommendation that his background and experience suited him for duty as a prosecutor.

Harrier said nothing to anyone about what he had learned about Parker's defense counsel. For one thing, if the IX Corps JAG had been doing his job, Morefield would be assigned here as a prosecutor, where he could have been sent down to the divisions as necessary to prosecute the serious cases. That the JAG would be facing a smart-ass Harvard lawyer was the JAG's own fault.

Furthermore, General Harrier believed that the accused was indeed entitled to the best possible defense. He privately hoped that Parker would beat the charge, although he realized that his chances were slim to do so. For one thing, he was obviously guilty as charged, and for another, the officers picked for the court were well aware the general believed he should be found guilty,
pour encourager les autres
.

“I thank you for your indulgence, sir,” Morefield said.

“Get on with it, Lieutenant,” the president said impatiently.

“Major Lowell,” Morefield said, “I notice that you are wearing the Expert Combat Infantry Badge with a star, signifying that it has been awarded to you twice.”

“Yes, sir,”

“You earned both awards as an officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which means then, that on two different occasions, you have commanded troops in combat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“Here and in Greece,” Lowell said.

“Have you ever been a tank company commander?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were in fact, the commanding officer of Task Force Lowell, which effected link-up with the X Corps when Eighth Army broke out of the Pusan perimeter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For which, I understand, you were given the Distinguished Service Cross?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I also understand that you have been decorated with the Distinguished Service Medal for your performance of duty as S-3 of the 73rd Heavy Tank Battalion during retrograde movement from the Yalu River in December 1950?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have, then, experience in combat in the attack
and
the retreat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I also understand that you were awarded the second highest medal for valor bestowed by the Greek government, the Order of St. George and St. Andrew, for your behavior above and beyond the call of duty in Greece. Is that, also, true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you a tank commander, a commander of armored forces, in Greece?”

“No, sir.”

“What did you command in Greece?”

“I was an advisor to a Greek regiment.”

“But you were decorated for your performance as an infantry company commander, were you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did that come to be, Major?”

“I assumed command when the Greek officer was killed, sir.”

“And you led troops who were not even legally subject to your orders? So well that their King decorated you?”

“They gave me a medal,” Lowell said, obviously embarrassed.

“You could fairly be described, then, as a young officer whose experience of command in combat, as well as whose personal valor, has seen him promoted to a rank unusually high for someone of his age. Would that be a fair statement?”

“Objection!” the trial judge advocate said. “For what it's worth, the prosecution will stipulate that Major Lowell is an outstanding, valorous young officer. But I don't see what that has to do with this case.”

“Thank you,” Morefield said smoothly. “Major, I want to ask you a hypothetical question. On the field of battle, in the midst of ‘chaos, confusion, and cowardice,' to use the phrase from the after-action reports, can you imagine a situation where the maintenance of good military order and discipline would require a summary execution?”

“Objection!” the trial judge advocate said.

“Yes, sir, I can,” Lowell replied.

“Objection sustained,” the president of the court said. “The court will not consider defense counsel's last question, or the response to it, in its deliberations.”

“I have no further questions,” Morefield said softly. “Your witness.”

The trial judge advocate was surprised at having the witness turned over to him. He had expected Morefield to keep pursuing the notion that combat demanded extraordinary measures. But he stood up and walked over to Lowell.

“We know each other, Major, don't we?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”