“Sir, KP ends at 2100,” said Fitz, calmly. “Look at the time now, sir. We haven’t had time to administer that kind of beating.”
Ogata looked at his watch. Looked at the doc and his two medics. Then, nodded.
“Two men have been killed in this camp, and a number of others have ended up seriously injured. As yet no one has been prepared to testify. I have been sent here by the Attorney General to put a stop to it.” With a ghost of a smile he said “The army doesn’t want soldiers dying before they reach the front.”
The major’s eyes narrowed. “If I have to drill this entire camp until half of you end up as clients for the lieutenant”—he pointed to the doctor who was helping the medics to get the boy onto a stretcher—”I will find out who did this. I’ll need all of your names and numbers. Then you can get yourselves back to your tents.” He jerked a thumb at the victim, now being carried through to the military ambulance. “He doesn’t need you anymore.”
As far as Fitz could see it was a lose-lose situation, especially for the four of them. All the conscript-boots dropping dead on the parade ground weren’t going to affect the guilty parties in this case. On the other hand . . . If they grassed . . . the instructors would see that they suffered in interesting ways. And Fitz—by now—had a grunt conscript’s faith in the fairness of the system: ten to one, the two corporals would get off while they carried the can.
Just then fate, in the shape of two drunken corporals, intervened. They also obviously did not expect the sick bay to be occupied by anything more than one easily intimidated medic. And they were less than observant as they barged in and turned on the four privates.
“All right, you lot of little scabs! Where’s Margolis? We haven’t finished with him. Or you. Especially you,” one of them snarled at Fitz.
Standing against the wall behind them, Ogata cleared his throat. “I think I have solved that little mystery.”
The two corporals turned, and looked in horror at the pips and JAG flashes. As one they tried to bolt.
“Halt!” yelled Ogata. They didn’t.
“Privates! Catch those two. Restrain them,” snapped Ogata.
It was not an opportunity that came the average boot’s way very often. An order from heaven, as it were. By the time the two corporals had been caught and “restrained”—one by SmallMac with his powerful horse-breaker’s legs applying a life-threatening scissors, and the other by being sat on—a number of scores from the last five and half weeks had been settled. Then a squad of guards and the guard commander arrived at a run.
Ogata looked grimly at the two prisoners hauled before him. Sniffed. “I’ll want blood samples from these two when the Doc gets back. And I want sworn statements. Now. Before anyone gets either intimidated or clever.”
He turned to one of the guard detachment. “Get me Lieutenant Belsen. I’ll use the doctor’s room for the statements. I’ll want these men one at a time. There will be no discussion amongst them.” He turned to Fitz and his companions. “I advise you strongly to stick to the bald truth. If one of your statements does not agree . . . you will be subjected to further investigation and charged.”
The lieutenant arrived at a run. He was a young, rather sadistic and sarcastic man, a once-minor Shareholder who obviously enjoyed controlling life and death for a large number of conscripts. The camp commandant was a bumbling and mediocre career officer. Belsen’s overeagerness appeared to give the old man dyspepsia. But the lieutenant stepped a wide and wary berth around Ogata.
Fitz’s turn came. He stuck to the truth. Under the circumstances it seemed like pretty good advice. The major, and the lieutenant who wrote it all down, seemed satisfied.
“Very well,” said the major. “Read through the document. If it is correct, put your number and signature at the bottom.”
Fitz did. He was then dismissed, and told to wait in the outer room. It looked like it was all over.