The next day Noah deserted.
Michael was called down to the orderly room.
"Where is he?" Colclough shouted.
"Where is who, Sir?" Michael asked, standing stiffly at attention.
"You know goddamn well who I mean," Colclough said.
"Your friend. Where is he?"
"I don't know, Sir," said Michael.
"Don't hand me that!" Colclough shouted. All the sergeants were in the room behind Michael, staring gravely at their Captain. "You were his friend, weren't you?"
Michael hesitated. It was hard to describe their relationship as friendship.
"Come on, Soldier! You were his friend."
"I suppose so, Sir."
"I want you to say yessir or nosir, that's all, Whitacre! Were you his friend or weren't you?"
"Yes, Sir, I was."
"Where did he go?"
"I don't know, Sir."
"You're lying to me!" Colclough's face had grown very pale and his nose was twitching. "You helped him get out. Let me tell you something, Whitacre, in case you've forgotten your Articles of War. The penalty for assisting at or failing to report desertion is exactly the same as for desertion. Do you know what the penalty for that is in times of war?"
"Yes, Sir."
"What is it?" Suddenly Colclough's voice had become quiet and almost soft. He slid down in his chair and looked up gently at Michael.
"It can be death, Sir."
"Death," said Colclough, softly. "Death. Listen, Whitacre, your friend is as good as caught already. When we catch him, we'll ask him if you helped him desert. Or even if he told you he was going to desert. That's all that's necessary. If he told you and you didn't report it, that is just the same as assisting at desertion. Did you know that, Whitacre?"
"Yes, Sir," Michael said, thinking, this is impossible, this could not be happening to me, this is an amusing anecdote I heard at a cocktail party about the quaint characters in the United States Army.
"I grant you, Whitacre," Colclough said reasonably, "I don't think a court-martial would condemn you to death just for not reporting it. But they might very well put you in jail for twenty years. Or thirty years. Or life. Federal prison, Whitacre, is not Hollywood. It is not Broadway. You will not get your name in the columns very often in Leavenworth. If your friend just happens to say that he happened to tell you he planned to go away, that's all there is to it. And he'll get plenty of opportunities to say it, Whitacre, plenty… Now…" Colclough spread his hands reasonably on the desk. "I don't want to make a big thing out of this. I'm interested in preparing a Company to fight and I don't want to break it up with things like this. All you have to do is tell me where Ackerman is, and we'll forget all about it. That's all. Just tell me where you think he might be… That's not much, is it?"
"No, Sir," Michael said.
"All right," Colclough said briskly. "Where did he go?"
"I don't know, Sir."
Colclough's nose started to twitch again. He yawned nervously. "Listen, Whitacre," he said, "don't have any false feelings of loyalty to a man like Ackerman. He was not the type we wanted in the Company, anyway. He was useless as a soldier and he was not trusted by any of the other men in the Company and he was a constant source of trouble from beginning to end. You'd have to be crazy to risk spending your life in jail to protect a man like that. I don't like to see you do it, Whitacre. You're an intelligent man, Whitacre, and you were a success in civilian life and you can be a good soldier, in time, and I want to help you… Now…" And he smiled winningly at Michael.
"Where is Private Ackerman?"
"I'm sorry, Sir," Michael said, "I don't know."
Colclough stood up. "All right," he said quietly. "Get out of here, Jew-lover."
"Yes, Sir," Michael said. "Thank you, Sir."
He saluted and went out.
Brailsford was waiting for Michael outside the mess-hall. He leaned against the building, picking his teeth and spitting. He had grown fatter than ever, but a look of uncertain grievance had set up residence in his features, and his voice had taken on a whining, complaining note since Noah had beaten him. Michael saw him waving to him as Michael came out of the door, heavy with the pork chops and potatoes and spaghetti and peach pie of the noonday meal. He tried to pretend he had not seen the Company Clerk. But Brailsford hurried after him, calling, "Whitacre, wait a minute, will you?" Michael turned and faced Brailsford.
"Hello, Whitacre," Brailsford said. "I've been looking for you."
"What's the matter?" Michael asked.
Brailsford looked around him nervously. Other men were coming out of the mess-hall and passing them in a food-anchored slow flood. "We better not talk here," he said. "Let's take a little walk."
"I have a couple of things to do," Michael said, "before parade…"
"It'll only take a minute." Brailsford winked solemnly. "I think you'll be interested."
Michael shrugged. "O.K.," he said, and walked side by side with the Company Clerk towards the parade-ground.
"This Company," Brailsford said. "I'm getting good and browned off with it. I'm working on a transfer. There's a sergeant at Regiment who's up for a medical discharge, arthritis, and I've been talking to a couple of people over there. This Company gives me the willies…" Michael sighed. He had planned to go back to his bunk and lie down in the precious twenty minutes after dinner.
"Listen," he said, "what's on your mind?"
"Ever since that fight," Brailsford said, "these bastards have been picking on me. Listen, I didn't want to sign my name on that list. It was a joke, see, that's what they told me, the ten biggest guys in the Company, and I was one of them. I got nothing against the Jew. They told me he'd never fight. I didn't want to fight. I'm no fighter. Every kid in town used to lick me, even though I was big. What the hell, that ain't no crime, not being a pugilist, is it?"
"No," said Michael.
"Also," Brailsford said, "I have no resistance. I had pneumonia when I was fourteen, and ever since then I have no resistance. I'm even excused from hikes by the doctor. Try and tell that bastard Rickett that," he said bitterly. "Or any of the others. They treat me like I sold military secrets to the German Army, ever since Ackerman knocked me out. I stood there and took it as long as I could, didn't I? I stood there and he hit me and hit me and I didn't go down for a long time, isn't that true?"
"Yes," said Michael.
"That Ackerman is ferocious," Brailsford said. "He may be small, but he's wild. I don't like to have no dealings with people like that. After all, he gave Donnelly a bloody nose, didn't he? and Donnelly was in the Golden Gloves. What the hell do they expect from me?"
"All right," Michael said. "I know all about that. What's on your mind now?"
"I ain't got no future in this Company, no future at all." Brailsford threw away his toothpick and stared sorrowfully across the dusty parade-ground. "And what I want to tell you is neither have you…"
Michael stopped. "What's that?" he said sharply.
"The only people that've treated me like a human being," Brailsford said, "are you and the Jew that night, and I want to help you. I'd like to help him, too, if I could, I swear I would…"
"Have you heard anything?" Michael asked.
"Yeah," said Brailsford. "They got him at Governor's Island, in New York, last night. Remember, nobody is supposed to know this, it's secret, but I know because I'm in the orderly room all the time…"
"I won't tell anybody." Michael shook his head, thinking of Noah in the hands of the Military Police, wearing the blue fatigues with the big white P for prisoner stencilled on the back, and the guards with the shotguns walking behind him. "Is he all right?"