Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 11/01/10 Read online

  Patrick said, “He doesn’t look to be physically wounded. My preliminary diagnosis is some kind of mental illness, possibly shell shock.”

  Both Colonel Browning and Major Olmstead grimaced. The colonel said, “Are you sure he isn’t faking it?”

  “Not entirely, sir, but I doubt it.”

  “Hmm. Well, we’re less interested in what his mental state is now and more interested in what it was four days ago, when he committed the murder. We need to know if he can be held responsible for his crime.”

  “I’m not sure how to determine that, sir. It’s hard to determine anything with a patient who shows no signs of physical trauma but can’t communicate with you. I’ll have to observe him for a while. If you’ll let me take him back to station—”

  “Absolutely not. That man is a dangerous criminal. I won’t turn him loose among the wounded.”

  “Well, a base hospital might be able to guard him better while he’s under observation.”

  Colonel Browning’s scowl deepened. “We’re not shipping him anywhere. He committed his crime here, he was tried here, and he’s going to be punished here.”

  “But, sir,” Patrick said hesitantly, “I must confess, I’m a little confused. You want me to determine whether or not Private Knox is responsible for what he’s done, but you’ve already convicted him of murder.”

  Major Olmstead said, “It’s not as confusing as it sounds. If Private Knox is insane, he’s still guilty of manslaughter. That’s why we need to determine his mental state. If you can get his side of the story out of him while you’re at it, so much the better. He didn’t say a word during his court-martial.”

  Patrick stood there for a moment, feeling lost. It wasn’t a new feeling; he’d only been in active service for two months now. There was still a lot he didn’t know. For example, he didn’t know the first thing about military law. He couldn’t understand why Private Knox had been court-martialed in the first place, given that there were doubts about his sanity. Surely he should have been examined first to determine whether or not he was fit to stand trial.

  Patrick said, “What do we know about his medical history?”

  Colonel Browning said, “He was wounded once, a few months ago. Made a full recovery.”

  “What about past psychological problems?”

  Patrick noticed how Colonel Browning’s lips twisted at the word psychological. In the short time Patrick had been in the army, he’d already learned that most officers thought the fledgling science of psychology was pure bunk. That included some of the medical officers.

  Major Olmstead said, “His record doesn’t say anything about that.”

  Patrick looked at the file sitting on the desk in front of Colonel Browning. “Is that his service record?”

  “Yes,” Colonel Browning said. “And a record of his court-martial. Do you want to see it?”

  “It might help me form an opinion.”

  Colonel Browning picked up the file and handed it to him. “I’ll need it before the end of the week. Your opinion, that is. The file doesn’t leave this building. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  “It’s a textbook case,” Patrick said. “It’s shell shock. This fellow cracked.”

  Captain Morris sipped his tea and said, “Why do you say that?”

  They were sitting in the mess tent, eating a late supper. Most of the other tables were empty at this hour. The patter of rain on the tent’s roof was audible between the clink of their flatware.

  Patrick said, “Knox was a model soldier before this incident. He’s been serving a long time, enlisted back in ’14. Never had any disciplinary problems according to his conduct sheet. But two weeks after he came back from being wounded, he killed someone in the trenches.”

  Calmly Captain Morris said, “How do we know it wasn’t something personal between them?”

  “The other men in the squad said that wasn’t it. According to them, Private Knox killed Corporal Daly when Daly ordered them over the top. Knox refused to go, said it was suicide. Daly accused him of being a coward. Knox pointed his rifle at him and shot him dead.”

  Morris didn’t even blink, even though that kind of conduct was simply unheard of. He just ate another forkful of corned beef.

  Patrick continued. “I’ve studied a few cases of shell shock. It usually happens just that way. Something happens to the soldier, some specific event, that makes him lose his nerve. Sometimes it’s being wounded, but other times it’s a near miss from an exploding shell. It doesn’t even have to harm him physically. The emotional shock is enough. I’ve heard of men who were temporarily buried alive when a shell collapsed a dugout on top of them, and afterwards they couldn’t stand shelling anymore. Other men cracked when they got bad news from home or when they got to the front for the first time and saw how bad it is there.”

  “This chap was at the front for years.”

  “I know. That’s the point. People who say shell shock isn’t real say the soldiers who present it are just cowards. But Private Knox wasn’t a coward. His record proves it. He was such a good soldier, he was made lance corporal of his squad. But something changed him. I say it was getting wounded a few months ago.”

  Morris made a vague gesture with his fork, unmoved.

  Patrick frowned at him. He might have expected this. He knew Morris didn’t put a lot of stock in the idea of shell shock, or psychology in general. Frankly, Morris didn’t have a lot of sympathy for any of the men who came back from the front, but especially the ones who had no physical wounds. More than once Morris had advised Patrick to be more dispassionate towards his own patients. He said you couldn’t have the same amount of compassion for them that you had for patients in civilian practice. Patrick had no real frame of reference; he’d been drafted just a few months after graduating from medical college. But he’d learned very quickly there was some truth in what Morris said. He’d now seen his share of malingerers, and of course you had to harden your heart when deciding which wounded soldiers to try to save and which ones to let die. But still, he hoped he never became as jaded as Morris was.

  He told himself he never could. A chilly disposition was in Morris’s blood—like most officers, he came from a noble family. He’d bought his commission in the time-honored tradition, whereas Patrick’s had been conferred on him because of the war emergency. Every now and then Morris did something to remind him of that, not with words usually, but with a glance or an attitude that said Patrick wasn’t really part of the club. The other medical officer working with them here at the Casualty Clearing Station, Captain Reeves, was the same way only worse.

  Patrick thought of how Reeves or Morris would have behaved if they’d been the one sent to examine Private Knox. The look he imagined on their faces matched the looks he’d gotten earlier today from Colonel Browning and Major Olmstead. Obviously, those two had also made up their minds about Private Knox. Troublingly, based on the record of Knox’s court-martial, it looked like their prejudice had influenced his trial.

  Broaching that subject, Patrick said, “I’ll tell you what’s odd. No one from Knox’s squad testified at his court-martial. None of his fellow soldiers, I mean, only his platoon sergeant. The sergeant’s the one who came along a few minutes after the murder and arrested him.”

  “Hmm,” Morris said disinterestedly.

  “Major Olmstead said they want to know Knox’s side of the story. If that’s true, why wouldn’t they bring in a witness who actually saw the murder?”

  Morris glanced up at him. He held Patrick’s gaze for so long, Patrick finally said, “What?”

  “Have you ever served on a Field General Court-Martial? No, you wouldn’t have. Well, I can tell you, it’s nothing like a civilian trial. It moves a lot quicker, for one thing. The members of the court don’t brook any delay. They want to hear the facts and they want to hear them quick. If the prisoner’s friend even calls a witness who presents information the court just heard f
rom someone else, the prisoner’s friend gets a dressing down.”

  “‘The prisoner’s friend?’”

  “That’s the defending officer.”

  “Oh, you mean the accused man’s barrister.”

  “No, there are no barristers in a Field General Court-Martial. The prisoner’s friend is usually the commander of the accused man’s company or platoon.”

  Patrick stared. “You mean the prisoner doesn’t even have someone trained in the law to defend him?”

  “No.”

  “Not even if he’s on trial for his life?”

  “No.”

  Patrick was speechless.

  Morris said, “Most of the time, no one else in the court has any legal training, either.”

  Patrick tried to express his disbelief, but again words failed him.

  Morris saw the look on his face and scowled. “Look around you,” he said. “What do you expect here? Court-martials are improvised, just like everything else. We don’t have any barristers, so officers serve in their place. We don’t have any courtrooms, so court-martials are held in dugouts and tents and wherever else there’s room. The last one I sat on was held in one of the rooms above a café. They set up a table at the foot of the bed, threw a blanket over it, and sat us down behind it. We didn’t have a Bible, so the witnesses swore their oath on a cookbook from downstairs. The presiding officer chose it because it looked important. It had gilded type on the spine.”

  “Good God.”

  “It gets worse. The prisoner is entitled to a defending officer but sometimes the trial is held without one. And there’s no appeal—of conviction or of sentence. If the prisoner says he was out of his mind when he committed the crime, he’s supposed to be examined by a medical officer if he’s convicted, but sometimes that doesn’t even happen. You should be glad they’re doing it in this case.

  “This is the army,” Morris concluded. “Court-martials are about enforcing discipline, not upholding the law. Every time I served on one, it was made clear to me I was expected to find the prisoner guilty and impose the maximum sentence.”

  “No wonder Private Knox went catatonic,” Patrick said. “If he knew what sort of justice he was in for.”

  Morris didn’t reply.

  Patrick added, “Knowing he’s been condemned to death can’t help either.”

  “He hasn’t been, yet.”

  “Yes, he has. He was found guilty at trial, and murder is a capital offense.”

  “But the sentence has to be confirmed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the details of the case will be sent to each of Knox’s superiors: the commander of his brigade, division, corps, and army. Each of them will say whether or not they think the sentence should be carried out. If they choose, they can recommend him to mercy and say the sentence should be commuted or suspended altogether. Their opinions will get passed up to the commander-in-chief. In the end, he’s the one who decides.”

  So Sir Douglas Haig himself would be the one to sign Knox’s death warrant, Patrick thought. There was no question in his mind that Knox’s sentence would be confirmed. Unless he could prove Knox wasn’t responsible for his actions.

  He had three more days to make his diagnosis. He’d better get it right. From the look of things, he was the only one who cared whether Knox deserved to die.

  Patrick visited Knox again the next day. He observed him for a full hour and gave him another, more thorough physical examination. He learned nothing.

  On his way out of the farmhouse, he asked a clerk where Knox’s platoon was stationed. The clerk checked his records.

  “They’re up at the front right now, sir,” the young man said. “In the firing trench.”

  Patrick was taken aback. He turned to go, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Where, exactly?”

  The clerk told him. Patrick thanked him and went out.

  Outside, he turned and looked towards the front. Now as always, the sound of shelling came from that direction. Lately the fighting had been lighter than it was during the first six weeks after his arrival, but a steady stream of casualties still came back from the front lines every night. By day there were none; the stretcher-bearers always waited until nightfall to collect the wounded from no-man’s-land. Without the cover of darkness, the work was just too dangerous. Even at night it was risky, since the sky was lit periodically by the brilliant flashes of explosions and the slowly arcing gleams of Verey lights.

  He’d never been to the trenches himself. He really should go, so he could speak with the members of Knox’s squad straightaway. Besides, it would give him the clearest possible picture of the circumstances in which Knox committed his crime. But he was under no obligation to go. And his superiors might not approve of him putting himself in harm’s way over something like this.

  He thought about it while he made his rounds. He didn’t tell anyone what he was considering, least of all Morris or Reeves. He made up his mind around mid afternoon, shortly before he ran into a stretcher-bearer named Private Welden, who was a passing acquaintance.

  Patrick asked him, “When are you going back to the front?”

  “In a few minutes, sir. Why?”

  “I want to go with you.” Welden nodded unquestioningly, but Patrick felt the need to add, “I need to get to the firing trench.”

  “I can get you there, sir. Meet me at the ambulance, say, in fifteen minutes?”

  “Okay.”

  “Wear your waders, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Patrick went to get ready. He took his helmet and sidearm out of his locker and put them on. He had to borrow a pair of waders from one of the orderlies. Then, on second thought, he went back to his locker and got the gas mask he’d been issued. He studied it as he walked across camp, making sure he knew how to use it.

  An ambulance took him and Welden to the reserve trench, which was the rearmost of the three parallel trenches dug into the French countryside. It was a short ride. Along the way, the sound of shelling got steadily louder.

  When they arrived and Patrick stepped down into the reserve trench, he saw immediately why Welden had insisted he wear waders. The trench was knee deep in water.

  Doubtfully he asked, “Is this from the rain last night?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s poor drainage here, and in a lot of other places. In some spots the trenches are always full of water. The water table is so close to the surface, the trenches there filled up as soon as they were dug.”

  Patrick realized he should have expected this. He’d heard about waterfilled trenches before, and certainly he’d seen enough cases of trench foot among the frontline troops. But somehow the reality of it still came as a surprise.

  Welden began to lead him along the narrow trench. Patrick followed carefully, feeling with his feet for the duckboards laid under the filthy water. He supposed the water must be chilly, although he couldn’t feel it through the waders. He imagined how much worse it would be when winter set in a couple of months from now. There would surely be a lot of cases of frostbite and hypothermia.

  As he and Welden made their way towards the firing trench, whistling shells exploded overhead. Each one made Patrick drop into a crouch. The seven-foot-high trench walls were good protection against shrapnel, but he knew a direct shell-hit wasn’t all he had to worry about. A shell that landed close enough would collapse the trench on top of him. He concentrated on following Welden along the mud-slippery duckboards, returning the salutes of the soldiers he passed. He caught groups of them by surprise since the trench was blocked at intervals by piles of sandbags and mounds of earth. He remembered the purpose of these traverses as soon as he saw them: they were designed to prevent the Germans from having a clear line of fire up and down the trench if they ever managed to occupy a section of it.

  He and Welden came at length to an intersection. The even narrower connecting trench led them towards the front line, terminating a
t the middle, or support trench. The sights here were very much the same as in the reserve. He and Welden passed rows and heaps of sandbags, dark dugout doorways, and muddy soldiers bent at work or standing around, looking unperturbed until the moment Patrick arrived. Another connecting trench soon branched off. Patrick followed Welden into it, his chest tightening with fear. Next stop: the front line. He almost felt like he didn’t need to see it anymore. He could already appreciate how hard it must be living in the trenches.

  At last they came to the firing trench. It was the most crowded one yet. He and Welden squeezed past men smoking cigarettes, tending their rifles and looking over the parapet through boxy, handheld periscopes. Not many of them were firing at the enemy; the wooden firing step built along the trench’s front wall was occupied mostly by bayonet-tipped rifles that stood propped in rows. In one place a soldier sat slumped between the rifles, his eyes closed. Patrick looked at him worriedly.

  When Patrick caught another private’s eye, he asked him, “Is that man all right?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s just asleep.”

  Another shell landed nearby, close enough to send clods of earth pattering down on Patrick’s helmet—and the helmet of the sleeping man. The latter hardly stirred.

  Patrick asked, “Where’s Sergeant Finney’s section?”

  “Thataway, sir.”

  Patrick headed in the direction the soldier had pointed, taking over the lead from Welden. Part of him wanted to get back to the rear as soon as possible, but he’d resolved to get a look at no-man’s-land, so he stopped when he came by another pair of soldiers and asked if he could look through their periscope. They let him.

  He looked out on a wasteland. Two hundred yards of open ground separated the British and German front lines. The field was churned to mud, cratered with shell holes and littered with bodies. He couldn’t help but search for signs of movement among the fallen men, not that he could do anything for them right now. But if any of the men lying in his field of view were still alive, he saw no sign of it. The only thing moving was the occasional rat nosing among the corpses. Patrick focused beyond the bodies and saw a thicket of barbed wire stretching from one end of the field to the other. Dark shapes seemed to be draped over it. Belatedly he realized those shapes were more corpses tangled in the wire.