Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [117]
“I wasn’t there when his order came. I don’t even know who issued it, but someone safely back in headquarters decided that Second Lieutenant Gabriel Hewetson needed to rouse his men into a wiring expedition that would show the French how it was done.
“The problem was, it was a full moon on a crystal-clear night. A rat couldn’t have got through the wire unnoticed. Gabriel pointed this out, pointed out that the sniper opposite had a lethal aim, but the order stood.
“His men would have followed him. There was no question in his mind, or in theirs, or in that of the man giving the order. They would have followed him, and they would have died.” He looked down, studying his old-man’s hands; I wanted to stop his narrative to save him the reliving of it. Instead, we waited as he drew a shaky breath, and then went on.
“Gabriel said no. In fact, he specifically ordered his company to stand down.”
“Thus taking full personal responsibility,” Holmes said, to show the man that we understood. The image of the Justice mascot, the ungainly bird ripping its heart out for its young, flashed starkly before me. “What was said at the trial? Did you attend?”
“I did not. It was so fast, by the time I heard about his arrest, he’d already been condemned.”
“What? How long was that?”
“Five days.”
“Five days? Surely that was an extraordinary rush?”
“It was judged to be a precarious time and place, and considering Gabriel’s popularity, his insubordination threatened the discipline of that entire stretch of the Front. Instant punishment was seen as essential. He was executed ten days after his arrest.”
“Ten—” Holmes was without words.
“Did no-one speak up for him?” I demanded.
“The opinion of his men was judged to be emotional attachment.”
“Surely his representative protested?”
“He had no defence.”
“No defence?” Holmes repeated, as appalled as I.
Hastings drew a deep breath. “Normally, he’d have had some kind of advocate. Normally, for a man his age, an officer, and a first offence, he’d have been stripped of his rank, perhaps given field punishment; certainly that’s what Gabriel expected. Normally, between arrest and execution there would have been at least two or three weeks, during which time appeals would be made. But in that part of the Front, in the summer of 1918, nothing was in the least normal. His court martial looked at his offence and heard him plead guilty. There was neither time nor inclination for leniency.”
“But he was an officer,” Holmes pointed out. “I could find records of only two or three other officers executed during the whole War, and only one of those for refusing to fight.” It was, in truth, the most incomprehensible part of the whole affair: Gentlemen were simply not lined up and shot, and even as Gabriel Hewetson, the boy’s class must have been instantly recognisable.
“It must have been the divisional commander’s letter that did for him. ‘An example must be set,’ it said. ‘The regiment’s unrest and growing unwillingness in the face of battle is a grave danger to us all,’ it said. ‘The cowardice of one young officer whose fighting skills have already been demonstrated to be of a low order must not be allowed to infect his fellows with the urge to mutiny.’ ” Hastings rubbed his face with both hands, a dry rasp that made my own skin creep. “The words of that letter are graven on my memory. But do you know, when I finally reached the man and confronted him with the result of his letter, in the first part of September, he could not even recall having written the thing.”
His aged voice trailed into the exhaustion of despair, and he did not need to tell us that this last betrayal had been the final blow. After a minute, he went on.
“They told him the day before, what his sentence was. That was common practice. I suppose it was hard on the other men, to hear the weeping and gnashing of teeth from their condemned comrade. The next morning they took him out and shot him at