Jack and Levin easily picked up Carter’s trail. Other GI’s simply pointed them in the right direction and, soon enough, they found him sitting behind a stone fence, the bottle of cognac, now half empty, cradled in his arms.
“Want to talk?” Jack asked as they plopped down on either side of him. Jeb’s eyes were red and his face was flushed.
“I think I’m through,” Carter said. “How many more tanks can I lose and how many more men can I get killed or maimed? Next time it might be me. I can handle that, but what I can’t deal with is people dying on my behalf or because of my stupid mistakes.”
“What mistakes?” asked Levin.
“We fired too soon. If we’d waited until they were closer, we might have hurt them.”
Jack shook his head. He was hardly an expert on armored warfare, but he’d picked up a goodly amount of knowledge since joining the 74th. “It didn’t matter. They saw you and would have shot just as soon as they could, which, please recall, was only seconds after you opened up. If anything, your firing first might have rattled them.”
“Sure,” Carter snarled. “Of my four tanks, only two were destroyed and one, mine, badly damaged. Four men are dead and five others wounded badly enough to be sent back. Let’s face it. I fucked up.”
Levin took the bottle. “If you’re finished with this, I’ll take a turn.” He swallowed and passed the cognac to Jack who took a healthy snort. Hell, Jack thought, if Jeb wasn’t going to finish drinking it, somebody should.
“Jeb,” said Levin, “the problem is very simple. The Germans have better tanks with better guns and better armor. Someday, the powers that be will realize that and get us weapons that will match up better with the krauts. In the meantime, we do the best we can with what we have. You know as well as I do that we outnumber them in tanks by a huge margin. Ergo, we’ve got to get on Whiteside and Stoddard’s case to keep our Shermans together in large numbers so we can overwhelm the next batch of Panthers that comes down the pike.”
Carter wasn’t listening. His chin was down and his eyes were closed. “Nappy time,” said Levin.
“We better get him inside before he freezes to death,” said Jack. It was mid-October and they’d already seen brief flecks of snow.
They took him under the arms and gently propelled him into a medic’s tent. “That doesn’t look like a combat wound, sir,” the medic, a corporal said stiffly.
“He just lost three tanks and nine men, Corporal,” Jack responded, just a little testily.
The corporal was unfazed but a little more sympathetic. He saw the bottle and smiled. “Self medication often works quite well, Captain. Put him on that cot and we’ll take care of him.”
Jack handed the corporal the bottle. It was still about a quarter full. “For services rendered?”
Jessica wearily walked up the three flights of stairs to her apartment. Even though she’d worked up a little sweat, she still clutched the thin overcoat tightly. Paris in the spring and summer might be lovely, but Paris in the fall and impending winter was cold, damp, and drab.
She stopped when she saw the door was ajar. She walked slowly, wondering if burglars were inside and she should start running down the stairs, when Monique popped her head out. “Your turn,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “Tell them the truth. Tell them everything you know.” With that, she turned and began walking down the stairs, sobbing loudly and dramatically.
Jessica entered her apartment. Two army majors stood and introduced themselves as members of the OPMG, the Office of the Provost Marshal General. In short, they were cops. The taller introduced himself as Major Harmon and the shorter officer with dark curly hair was Major Pierce. The OPMG had checked her background before letting her join the Red Cross, which she’d thought was a ridiculous waste of time and effort.
Jessica sat down. After all, it was her apartment. “I assume you’re here about Monique’s friend.”
Harmon answered. He appeared to be the leader. “Sergeant Doyle, yes.”
She smiled. “It’s Boyle, major.”
Annoyed, the taller officer corrected something on his notes. “What do you know about Boyle, Miss Granville?”
“Very little. Monique met him when we were all stationed at Rennes. He works in supply and that’s about all I know about him. I did not socialize with him. He is, was, Monique’s friend.”
“Did he ever bring around any presents?” Pierce asked.
She shrugged. “Flowers, food, chocolates, some wine, and some cognac are all I can remember.”
Pierce persisted. “I mean anything truly expensive?”
Jessica laughed. “Look around. Do you see anything remotely expensive?”
Harmon smiled. “Good point. By the way, is Boyle paying for this place?”
“No, I am. I’m also quite sure you’re aware that my father is a lawyer, and that my uncle is on Ike’s staff.”
“Actually, he’s on Beetle Smith’s staff,” Harmon said, “which may be a distinction without a difference, and yes, we do know about your family. Our asking you these questions is just a formality. But we do have to cover all our bases.”
“Gentlemen, what concerns me is the level of interest you’re showing. Boyle told Monique that he was under suspicion of stealing something, but we both thought it was relatively petty. I’m beginning to think we were mistaken.”
Harmon took a deep breath. “Look, just about everyone in supply takes something and it’s generally used to make their lives more comfortable, rather than trying to make a huge profit.”
“Yeah,” Pierce said, “for instance, you’d be shocked, simply shocked, at how many bottles of liquor destined for officers’ clubs go missing, or how many sides of beef run off like they still had hooves, but, you’re right, this is different. Ever hear of penicillin?”
“A little. It’s supposed to be a wonder drug that kills almost all infections. It’s supposed to be saving a lot of lives of wounded soldiers.” Realization dawned. “Oh God.”
“That’s right,” Harmon said. “It’s extremely valuable and extremely expensive. Significant quantities of it have disappeared and Boyle’s involved. And a suitcase full of it could be worth many thousands of dollars, unlike a case of whisky or a side of beef.”
“Even worse,” Pierce added, “every little bit missing means some wounded GI isn’t the getting help he needs to recover from his wounds.”
Jessica shook her head sadly. Boyle had seemed like a nice guy. “What’s Monique’s involvement?”
Pierce answered. “We can’t prove she knew anything and, like you, she doesn’t appear to have profited. In short, she’s in the clear until proven otherwise. So are you for that matter, although I sincerely doubted you were ever involved.”
“Thank you, I guess. And Boyle?”
“He’s disappeared,” said Major Harmon, standing to go. “He’s joined a growing number of deserters who feel they can hide out in the chaos surrounding the war.”
Pierce glared. “And God have mercy on them when we find them, because we’ll hang them.”
General George Catlett Marshall fumed quietly. Had the late General Leslie McNair been the problem or the solution? They’d had heated arguments over the proper use of armor on the battlefield and what type of tanks should be built. There would be no more arguments. McNair was dead, the victim of friendly fire on the beaches of Normandy just a couple of months earlier. That Leslie McNair had been a good an honorable man was without question. But had he convinced the army to make a bad decision? Hindsight always provided a hell of a view and Marshall decided to leave it at that.
Pre-war army doctrine had said that tanks did not fight other tanks. That job was left to the so-called tank destroyers, which were light and quick and designed to wait for enemy armor to attack them. Tanks supported infantry, or smashed like cavalry into the rear of an opponent’s army and destroyed their supplies and communications. That, of course, was dogma before the Germans and their blitzkrieg attacks and their rapidly moving and well-armored tank columns.