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 before 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.”