Mississippi Blood

  “Colonel Eklund,” Quentin begins, “do you know the defendant, Dr. Thomas Cage?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He served under me in Korea.”

  “Was he a physician then?”

  The colonel gives a soft chuckle. “No, he was a private. An eighteen-year-old medic, fresh out of high school. I was twenty-three.”

  “During this trial, we’ve heard a lot of testimony about Private Cage’s actions on the night of November thirtieth, 1950. Were you with him on that night?”

  “No, sir. I’d been wounded and flown to a hospital in Japan.”

  “I see. So when was the last time you saw Private Cage?”

  “The night the Bugout began.”

  “I’m sorry? The Bugout?”

  “The American retreat from the Yalu River area in Korea. It started the night of November twenty-fifth, when the Chinese revealed their true strength and went through our lines like Hitler’s panzers through the Polish cavalry.”

  “I see. What was your rank and assignment on that night?”

  “I was a second lieutenant in charge of J Company, one of the northernmost American units in Korea. Love Company was stuck out the farthest. They were an all-black unit commanded by a Japanese-American officer. Love Company usually got the most dangerous probing assignments, for the obvious reason. And then there was us, Company J, to the east on Hill 403.”

  “What was your assignment on that night?”

  “To hold the hill.”

  “Did you succeed?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because at midnight the Chinese People’s Volunteer Army attacked us with overwhelming force. The odds were in the neighborhood of fifty to one. We weren’t dug in very well, either. I’d been on Peleliu in the Pacific, so I knew how important good foxholes were, but the men were wet and tired when we got to the hill, and the ground was frozen. Deeper holes wouldn’t have mattered, though, given what the Chicoms threw at us that night.”

  “Was Private Cage on Hill 403 that night?”

  “He was. He served as one of my company medics.”

  “Do you remember how he performed his duties during the Chinese assault?”

  “I’m not likely to forget it.”

  “Why is that, Colonel?”

  Colonel Eklund is searching for my father, I realize. He probably can’t quite grasp that the old man sitting at the defense table is the young medic he commanded in Korea. But then he does, because a look of wonder and sadness comes into his eyes.

  “Colonel Eklund?” Quentin prompts. “Why won’t you forget Private Cage’s actions on Hill 403?”

  “Because I recommended him for the Medal of Honor for what he did that night.”

  “Objection!” Shad barks into the shocked silence. “This can have no relevance to what happened in an ambulance five nights later.”

  Without waiting for Judge Elder to rule, Quentin says, “I’d like to let the jury decide that, Your Honor. But I believe you’ll see the relevance in a few moments.”

  At last I understand why Quentin allowed Shad to call Major Powers to the stand with his tale of mercy killing in the ambulance. The moment Powers began to testify about what happened in 1950, the Korean War became fair game in this trial. Elation—and resentment at Quentin—are flooding through me in equal measure. Quentin claimed that my hope of him having a surprise witness in his back pocket was juvenile, yet true to his reputation as a courtroom magician, he has produced one.

  Judge Elder looks hard at Shad. “As I said yesterday, Mr. Johnson, you opened the door to Korea. I can’t very well stop Mr. Avery from marching through it.”

  With the smallest of satisfied smiles, Quentin turns back to Colonel Eklund. “Can you describe the events that prompted you to recommend Private Cage for that award?”

  Eklund reaches into his inside coat pocket. “I actually brought the nomination letter with me. I just hope I brought my proper glasses.”

  “You can just tell us in your own words what happened.”

  “I’d rather read the nomination letter. I wrote it in 1950 while recuperating in Japan. I’m getting on in years, as you can see, and I figure the letter’s more accurate than my memory.”

  “As you wish.”

  If this is all theater, prearranged by Quentin, it is very effective theater. But something tells me that Colonel Eklund is exactly what he appears to be: a willing witness with an important story to tell. And as he moves the yellowed letter nearer to and farther away from his face, searching for the proper distance, I sense that I am about to learn what my father meant when he said, “Korea wasn’t all like what happened in that ambulance.”

  “Should I just start, Judge?” Eklund asks.

  “Go ahead, Colonel.”

  The man clears his throat once, then begins in a strong baritone that reverberates through the courtroom.

  “The nomination reads: ‘27 November 1950, Ch’ongch’on River, North Korea. For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving with Company J in action against enemy aggressor forces. At midnight the company, assigned the defense of Hill 403, came under overwhelming fire by two full divisions of Chinese infantry. In the chaos of this night assault, it was impossible to determine how many American foxholes had been overrun. Cries from wounded men came from every side, including false ones made by the enemy in an effort to pinpoint the few holes still held by J Company. With complete disregard for his own safety, Pfc. Cage crawled from foxhole to foxhole, administering aid and encouragement to his fellow soldiers, most of whom were mortally wounded. During this hours-long effort, Pfc. Cage was exposed to constant enemy fire, as Communist troops continued to pour through the American lines. When a second company medic was shot on open ground, Pfc. Cage braved a gauntlet of machine-gun fire to carry his fellow aid man to shelter. Approximately ten minutes later, an enemy grenade dropped into the command hole, and Company J’s lieutenant received disabling shrapnel wounds to the face, chest, and legs.’”

  Colonel Eklund gives Judge Elder a crooked smile and says, “That’s me, Your Honor, as you can see from my scarred-up kisser.”

  Soft chuckles come from the balcony.

  I turn in my seat, looking for Walt Garrity, wondering if he was the second aid man whom Dad carried to safety. After a few seconds, I spot him, on the ground floor this time, about five rows back, in the gallery. Walt catches my eye, shakes his head, then returns his gaze to his former commanding officer.

  “Please, go on,” says Judge Elder.

  “‘Pfc. Cage stabilized his commanding officer, then remained at his CO’s side and helped to direct the remainder of the company by serving as a runner, even as the position was overrun by the enemy. When a Chinese soldier leaped into the command foxhole, Pfc. Cage picked up an entrenching tool and killed him by striking him in the neck. After the main body of Chinese had passed through the American lines, Pfc. Cage made a circuit of the foxholes to determine how many members of his company remained alive. During this effort he was wounded in the shoulder by shrapnel. Pfc. Cage treated himself with morphine, then returned to the command hole to report. Of the original eighty-two men on Hill 403, only fourteen remained alive. Eleven were gravely wounded. With his CO disabled, Pfc. Cage rounded up the survivors for evacuation, formed stretcher parties of wounded men, then led them down the hill and took shelter in a ravine, where they came under sniper and strafing fire. While sheltering in the ravine, eight defenders succumbed to their wounds or to enemy fire.’”

  Colonel Eklund pauses for a moment and looks at the ceiling. After blinking a few times, he wipes his face with his sleeve, then pushes on.

  “‘Using an M2 carbine borrowed from a fallen comrade, Pfc. Cage fought vigorously to repel a Chinese charge. During this attack, he received additional shrapnel wounds caused by fragmentation grenades, yet he continued to resist. Just befor
e dawn, Pfc. Cage led the six survivors of Company J out of the ravine and eventually joined elements of two shattered Second Division companies moving toward Kunu-ri.’” The colonel clears his throat again, then finishes in a quavering voice. “‘By his unwavering fortitude, sustained personal bravery, and indomitable fighting spirit against overwhelming odds, Pfc. Cage reflects the highest glory upon himself, and upholds the finest traditions of the U.S. Army Medical Corps.’”

  When Colonel Eklund stops speaking, no sound can be heard in the court.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Quentin says softly. “I don’t imagine that’s an easy night to recall.”

  “No, sir. It was one of the worst days in the history of the U.S. Army. But I’m proud of how my men fought, regardless of the outcome.”

  “Your Honor,” Shad says irritably, “this is descending into melodrama.”

  Colonel Eklund continues speaking to Quentin and Judge Elder as though Shad did not object. “I’d like to add that those colored—excuse me, African-American boys from Love Company fought just as hard as mine did. Nearly to the last man. You fellows ought to be proud of them.”

  “Your Honor!” Shad cries. “It is no longer 1950!”

  Despite the colonel’s politically incorrect language, Judge Elder seems inclined to be gentle with him. “Mr. Johnson, you made this bed. Don’t whine about lying in it.”

  While Shad gapes at the judge, Joe Elder says, “Mr. Avery, have you finished with this witness?”

  “Not quite yet, Your Honor.” Quentin turns back to the witness box. “Colonel Eklund, did Private Cage receive the medal you recommended him for?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Medal of Honor requires three witnesses to the act of valor, and a lot of other things besides. We had the witnesses, though for a while it looked like none of us would make it out alive. And there was no question that Tom had earned it. In fact, a few weeks after I put him up for the award, I heard that President Truman was going to give it to Tom along with another boy from that same few days of fighting. I knew because they pull a man out of the line when he’s going to get the big one. In the old days, too many boys had gotten killed right after winning the Medal of Honor, and that was embarrassing to the service.”

  “Was Private Cage in fact pulled out of the line?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I didn’t find out why right away. I just got word he was to stay on the line while we waited for replacements. But later on, my commanding general told me that the medal had been quashed for political reasons.”

  “Political reasons?” Quentin echoes, emphasizing the word political enough to remind the jury of Major Powers’s story of the murder charges he’d brought against Dad and Walt. “Did he specify those reasons?”

  “The general himself told me that an air force pilot had made accusations of murder against Private Cage and Private Garrity from our company. He claimed they’d killed some of our wounded during the retreat from the reservoir. Well, by that time the defeat at Chosin Reservoir had become a huge embarrassment for General MacArthur. The marines came out looking okay, but the army looked terrible. The last thing MacArthur wanted was accusations flying between the services about medics killing our own men. He wasn’t about to let something like that become a scandal, so Tom’s Medal of Honor vanished into the Big Nowhere along with the pilot’s accusations.”

  Quentin seems content to let the jury chew on this for a while. After he figures they’ve digested the information, he says, “Colonel, have you heard about the charges Major Powers made again in this courtroom against Dr. Cage? About what happened that night in the wrecked ambulance?”

  “I read it in the newspaper a few minutes ago, on my way to the courtroom.”

  “What’s your opinion of those charges?”

  “Objection,” Shad says with barely contained anger. “On multiple grounds. Opinion rule, for one. The witness has not been qualified as a military expert.”

  “Your Honor,” says Quentin, “I submit that after thirty years of military service, in three wars, the colonel is qualified to give an opinion characterizing Private Cage’s actions in combat on that night or any other.”

  “I’ll allow it.”

  “I wasn’t in that ambulance,” Colonel Eklund says. “But a dozen factors play into every combat situation, especially in an emergency like that. How severely injured are your wounded? How has the enemy been treating your prisoners? Is there any reasonable expectation of aid? Are you obligated to stay with your wounded in the face of certain capture? That’s probably not even half of what went through those two medics’ heads during the first hour inside that ambulance, and they weren’t even twenty years old. I figure they were in shock, being wounded themselves. And there was no doubt about what would have happened if they were captured. I personally saw an American ambulance that the North Koreans had torched with living wounded inside it. Every man in the theater had heard those stories, I guarantee it.”

  “So, knowing all those factors as you do, do you believe that Private Cage and Private Garrity committed murder on that night?”

  “I guess I believe that what they did falls outside the boundaries of rules and regulations. All I can tell you is that I never saw Tom Cage act out of fear or selfishness. Not even when his life was at stake. At eighteen years old, the man did his job in all circumstances, regardless of the risk to himself. Whatever he did in that ambulance that night, he did for the welfare of the men under his care. I’d stake my life on that.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. One last question. In your experience, did American pilots receive special treatment as compared to other prisoners taken by the North Koreans and Chinese?”

  “Absolutely. That was common knowledge. The Chinese wanted to learn all they could about our fighter and bomber capabilities, so all enemy combatants and civilians knew to pass pilots up the chain for interrogation. I’m sure they suffered plenty in captivity—and a few got murdered with bamboo spears in one incident I know about—but unlike GIs and grunts, they weren’t shot out of hand, burned, starved, or left to die in the snow. Not as a rule, anyway.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. No further questions.”

  “This is when you find out how good a lawyer is,” I whisper to Rusty.

  Rusty leans over to me. “If I were Shad, I’d cut my losses and get General Patton there off the stand as fast as possible.”

  But Shad has no intention of retiring from the field. He stands and approaches Colonel Eklund without the slightest trepidation. “Colonel, how long had you known Private Cage before the Chinese hit you on the night of the twenty-fifth?”

  “About four months.”

  “Did you ever see him again after the morning of November twenty-sixth, 1950?”

  “No.”

  “Did you recognize him when you came into court today?”

  Colonel Eklund smiles sadly. “No, I didn’t, I’m sorry to say. He looks a lot older than the gangly kid who served under me, but then we all do. I’m glad to see him, though, no matter how he looks.”

  “Of course. But isn’t it fair to say that you never really knew him intimately?”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “You only knew him for four months, you said.”

  “Mr. Johnson, after the night of November twenty-fifth, I knew Private Cage better than most people ever get to know anybody.”

  Shad steeples his fingers as he walks. “Because you served in combat together?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So one night of combat brings men closer than, say, a man and wife who live together for fifty years?”

  “Have you ever served in combat?”

  “No.”

  “Well. If you had, you’d know that you can get closer to someone in fifteen hours of fighting for your life than you could in fifteen years of living in the same house with them.”

  “A common belief. But there’s
no way to prove that statement, is there?”

  “I beg to differ. In combat, soldiers are asked to prove their love for their fellow men in ways that people in civilian life never are.”

  This answer throws Shad off his rhythm.

  “Ask any Vietnam wife,” Colonel Eklund says. “Who knows her husband better? Her? Or the men who spent a year in the mud and the blood with him in Southeast Asia?”

  Shad seems to honestly weigh the implications of this. He’s breaking a cardinal rule of jurisprudence, asking questions to which he does not know the answers. For a few moments I am confused, but then it hits me: Shad actually believes that Dad murdered Viola. And because he does, he believes that even in this story of heroism, he will find some hint of the moral decay that led to Viola’s murder five decades later.

  “I listened closely to the nomination you made for the Medal of Honor. Let me ask you this, Colonel. Couldn’t it be said that on that night Private Cage—rather than going above and beyond the call of duty—performed his duties exactly as required?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m suggesting that Private Cage performed the standard duties of an army medic, performed them well, and then, after your position was overrun, did whatever was required to save himself and the other survivors from certain death.”

  “That’s what he did, all right.”

  “Is that in itself remarkable?”

  Colonel Eklund takes his time with this one. “It is. You might think that performing one’s duty under fire is standard procedure. But after serving in three wars, I can tell you it’s not. I’ve seen muscle-bound hero types cower in trenches, while skinny runts held together with spit and whipcord charged machine-gun nests, howling like the hounds of hell. What’s remarkable about the night the Chinese overran us is that Private Cage survived at all. He had more burp gun rounds sprayed at him than what you see in these silly shoot-’em-up movies they make nowadays. But somebody upstairs was looking out for him that night. As for duty . . . the men who served with Tom Cage knew that if they went down, he would do everything in his power to save them. They knew it, you hear me? And because of that, they fought hard. And when they fell, he kept his end of the bargain. He crawled out into a dark so full of Chinese soldiers you couldn’t move without one trying to bayonet you. You can’t ask more of a man than that. And you can’t teach it in boot camp. A man’s either raised up to do his duty or he’s not.”