Mortal Allies

catching so much crap ’round here, y’know. And next time you see Tommy, you tell him I still love him like a brother. Be real precise about that, though. Only like a brother, heh-heh.”

I said, “Thanks, Ernie. I’ll do that. Switch me back to the registrar, would you?”

A moment passed, there were two rings, and Colonel Hal Menkle’s irascible voice came back on.

“You get what you needed, Drummond?” he asked.

“Walters wasn’t the least bit helpful,” I lied. “Who do you think might be helpful?”

“Try Chaplain Forbes. Or there’s a Lieutenant Colonel Merryweather who taught him math. Or, there’s-”

I jumped in. “How about his old English prof? Edwin Gilderstone?”

“Gilderstone?” he asked, sounding surprised. And damned unhappy, too – so unhappy, in fact, I could swear I heard his teeth grinding.

“Yes, that’s right. Major Edwin Gilderstone.”

“I… uh-”

“He’s still on the faculty, isn’t he?”

“Maybe. What possible reason would you have for speaking with him, though? Trust me here, Drummond, the other names I’m giving you, they’re much better qualified to speak on this issue. You don’t want to set foot in the wrong pastures here, if you get my drift. You could find yourself in a pretty ugly pile of shit.”

I sure as hell did get his drift. When something like this happens, an institution, any institution, flies into a frenzy of self-mortification and damage control. This was the well-storied Long Gray Line: Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant, “Blackjack” Pershing, Eisenhower, Omar Bradley, “Stormin’ Norman” Schwartzkopf… oops, ouch, shit… Thomas Whitehall. What the hell happened here? How mortifying.

And as a wise old commander I once worked for used to caution, mortification quickly begets cover-ups. Obviously, the Academy had a list of former associates who would say the right things, proffer the right innuendos, who would create just the right impression.

That impression was that Thomas Whitehall was living proof that “don’t ask, don’t tell” didn’t work, that it allowed murderous homosexuals to slip through the net.

I said, “I want to speak with Edwin Gilderstone and I sure as hell hope you’re not trying to hinder me. Because if you are, then I’ll have you cited for impeding my defense.”

He very coldly said, “Back off, Drummond. You can talk to whomever you want.”

I made it a point to sound even colder. “I know. Connect me, right away.”

Three rings later, a soft, gentle voice said, “Ed Gilderstone.”

I said, “Hi, Ed, Sean Drummond here. I’m the lawyer who has the unparalleled honor of defending Thomas Whitehall. I’m told you were his English professor. I’m also told you knew him pretty well.”

“I was. But I was not merely his English professor. I was also his faculty adviser. I therefore saw Thomas regularly the whole four years he was here.”

“Wow. You must be spending a lot of time talking to the press these days, huh?”

Sounding suddenly grumpy, he said, “I’ve spent no time talking with the press.”

“No?”

“I’ve actually been blacklisted from speaking to any journalists. Can you imagine? I even received a formal letter from the superintendent personally ordering to me to say nothing to the press.”

“Really? Like a gag order, huh? Why would they do that?”

Now, sounding childish, he replied, “I suppose I don’t represent the image they want portrayed to the press.”

“What image is that?” I asked, knowing damn well what image he meant.

“I’m not one of these young, lean, square-jawed, Airborne, Ranger types who take a brief sabbatical from the Army, pick up a quick master’s, then come up here and pretend they’re teachers for a few years before they go back to troops. Warrior-scholars, they call themselves.”

“Then what are you, Ed?”

“I’m a short, bald, fifty-three-year-old major who would’ve been cashiered fifteen years ago, but for one asset: I happen to have a doctorate in English literature from Yale. The Academy hates it, but it must preserve a few like me on the permanent faculty or it’ll lose its credentials as a real college. But God forbid the press ever learn there are overeducated dinosaurs like me in uniform.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Twenty-two long, disgruntling years.”

“Yes, well,” I said, having heard enough of his problems, “we each must serve our country in our own way.”

“Don’t patronize me, Drummond. I was a major when you were in diapers.”

“Very likely true,” I admitted, now fully understanding exactly why the folks who ran West Point did not want Gilderstone to be on the same planet with a journalist. Aside from whatever he might say that contradicted the party line about Whitehall, he was a whiny, bitchy, disillusioned old man. If it were me, I too would order him to hide in the attic while I strutted some gung-ho hard-cock with a Ranger tab in front of the press.

I decided to cut to the chase. “So, Ed, what can you tell me about Tommy Whitehall?”

“Thomas? What can I say about Thomas? Simply that he’s one of the most remarkable young men I ever met. Brilliant, poised, an extraordinary scholar, a great athlete. I tried to get him to go for a Rhodes Scholarship. Were you aware of that?”

“Really? A Rhodes? I had no idea. What happened?”

“Damned fool flatly refused,” Gilderstone moaned. “A crying shame, too. The boy stood a good chance.”

“No kidding? Why didn’t he do it?”

“He said that even if he could get it, he didn’t want to waste two more years at Oxford, feathering his resume. That’s how he put it. Can you imagine?”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“He was in a hurry to get to the field with troops.”

“So what’s wrong with that?”

“The poor boy was brainwashed by all the gung-ho propaganda they pump into these impressionable young cadets up here. Troop officers are a dime a dozen. You’re a lawyer; you know that. Thomas had so much more to offer. He was a vessel filled with so many remarkable talents. He could’ve come back here to teach.”

One of the things you learn to do as a lawyer is listen real closely. It wasn’t only what Gilderstone was saying, it was how he was saying it, like an ugly duckling describing a swan. There was a reason Ernie Walters had pointed me toward Gilderstone. That reason was beginning to grow legs, and hair, and warts.

Thinking I was being slick, I said, “So you were pretty fond of the kid, eh, Ed?”

For a very long time, Gilderstone did not answer. And I knew, after the first few seconds, that I’d underestimated him.

When he did speak, he erupted. “Drummond, there was nothing between us. Not a damn thing!”

“But Ed, who ever said there was?”

“I’ve already warned you, Drummond, don’t patronize me. Is this why you called me? How’d you get my name? Did Thomas give it to you? Is this one of those witch hunts? What? They’re promising leniency if he gives up some more gays in uniform? Is that what this is about?”

“Gilderstone, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if you and Whitehall boffed each other in the commandant’s bed. I’m just trying to figure him out. That’s all. I’m trying to keep Whitehall out of the electric chair.”

There was another long pause. Then, still sounding grouchy as hell, he insisted, “I never slept with him. Never!”

“I told you, Gilderstone, I don’t give a damn.”

“Then what is this about?”

“Information. Anything you say is confidential. That’s on the record.”

“Nothing will be attributed?”

“Not if you don’t want it to, no.”

“Well, I don’t. Don’t think me stingy, Drummond, but I’m not coming out of the closet for Whitehall. You need to agree to protect me.”