Cosgrove's People: Korea and After

By William F. Stack

AFTER SUCCESSFUL MILITARY CAREER, SGT. COSGROVE refl ects back on an almost impossible mission he took part in as a young soldier in Korea. During which, he kills.

After his wife passed away and his daughter left him, he fi nds himself more and more disinterested in the successful business that he created. His mind keeps drifting back to that snow-covered fi eld on that cold day over 40 years ago. The rush of men yelling, bullets flying, thinking of death, he decides to track down the four men that he saved that day and see how their lives turned out. In doing so, he enters into a complicated and dangerous situation created by the lives of the men and their families and the lives they lived and died.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483637051

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Copyright © 2013 by William F. Stack.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 05/06/2013

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 1

T his one would be the first. Almost forty years ago, there were four, half a squad, all young men. Two were in their teens, two in their early twenties, bright eyed and scared. Funny, he mused, because he could not really remember if they were ever bright eyed. But he could remember all the other faces about these kids as they became men toward the end. He would also remember the kids; he would remember their faces forever. Five Chinese kids to be sure. He only knew them for a brief few moments, probably less than two minutes as their lives ended. He remembered many times running by their dead and dying bodies toward the four figures standing together in the snow. Get down, get down, find cover! he had screamed. In these dangerous moments, he had heard a variety of noises, which he became incapable of separating into the one that would be lethal to him.

If any, he thought, were left, they had to be in shock or badly wounded, or so he hoped. He calculated for the next minute, they would be no danger to him as he ran over the deep Korean snow, closing the distance to the four prisoners. Look out, look out, Sarge! one of the four yelled out in a weak voice. Four of the Chinese soldiers were on the ground close to each other. One had been shot about fifty feet away. The warning threw fear into his gut. He dove headfirst into the snow. This would afford him some cover. If he had turned while running, he might have been shot in the fraction of time it took to aim and fire. As such, this life-saving cover might be the last mistake he would ever make. He would have to turn. He waited for the pain the bullets would cause him as he struggled to shift his body and rifle through the foot-deep snow and face the enemy he thought he had vanquished. The sun was going down as it did early in every country where snow fell. Korea was no different. The turn was made without a single shot or automatic fire. He was now in a favorable position. He glanced quickly at the separate figure. No movement; the enemy soldier lay on his back with his rifle at least ten feet away. No immediate danger. Ducking down, he pulled his M1 rifle to where he could rapid-fire when he would have to rise again to look toward the four Chinese soldiers. I got to do it, his mind told him. They could not see him, and he would like to have lain in the snow for the next ten years. I have to know, again his mind said. Tricks, you got to use tricks, they are either dead or badly wounded. That makes them slow witted, he thought. It’s now or never. Wait I have a grenade. He had felt the thing as he had plummeted in the snow. Even though he could not see exactly where they were, he could drop the fragmentation grenade close enough.

The noise, the steep shrapnel would give him two seconds to fire. In years to come, he would not be able to recall removing the grenade from his pocket, pulling the pin, and throwing the thing. His only memory would be of him on his knees with his rifle aimed at the four figures. Three were motionless; one was on his knees and hands, with his head lowered. Kill him, kill him, oh please, god, kill him, one of the Americans called. This was a different voice from the boy who had called, Look out a minute before. Was this gook a danger to him, or was he just in this crawling animal-like position to ease the pain that was causing his impending death?

A third voice called out, Kill the bastard now! This was a steadier voice than the previous two that had called out earlier, almost like NCO, who knew his business. Corporal Cosgrove had a clear shot now, and kneeling on one knee, he ejected the magazine from his rifle, wasting the two shells he had not needed to fire when he had attacked the five Chinese soldiers just a few minutes before. In the seven months he had been in combat, he had hit men he knew. But he never really knew if they had been killed by his bullets or just wounded as he hoped. He looked at the enemy soldier who was trying to lift his head. The soldier from another country and culture finally looked straight into the eyes of Corporal Cosgrove. Was he defiant or just pleading for mercy? The corporal was never to know. He reasoned from the blood-soaked quilt uniform that, more than likely, this was his end. Finish him off, kill him, what the hell are you waiting for? came a new voice from the Americans.

Removing a full clip from his trouser pocket, he inserted into the top of his rifle, releasing the operating rod it slide forward. The safety was always off. Almost mechanically, the rear sight was aligned with the front sight, and the young Oriental face became blue. Those eyes faded in his vision as the sights came together. He would always remember the rifle kicking, but he could never remember the noise. The impact from the bullet hit the boy’s face and jerked it quickly to the left, just as it must have been turned thousands of times before as he would hear his mother’s voice calling him.

Of all the firefights, of all the skirmishes, this first close encounter with an enemy would imprint itself forever on Corporal Cosgrove’s mind. Now an old man in his middle sixties, the maturing wine of aging still had not finalized this question, Did I do right that cold evening forty years ago? I’m still analyzing, always analyzing. First, I convince myself, Yeah, that’s all I could have done. Months go by, and I feel vindicated, and I’m almost happy; then I swing the pendulum and ask myself, Did I have to fire that shot? What about the other four gooks? I never gave them a second thought. Jesus, why do I feel this way? If I had done wrong, then I’m wrong about all five of those kids. God, I hope what I plan to do will work out all right. I need more than physical rest. I hope I’ll have the energy to see this thing through; yeah, I hope this is the right way, and if it ain’t, then I’ll live with the guilt at least until I’ll know where I stand with myself… yeah! That’ll make it easier, I guess.

Mr. Cosgrove, Mr. Cosgrove, your cab is pulling up, the young girl called as she approached. I’m sorry, did I startle you? It’s easy to fall asleep on such a dull day. No, he replied, and smiling he added, I must be getting old when there’s a pretty girl like you around, and my mind wonders on other things. She didn’t reply, but to let him know she approved of his compliment, she walked with him through the hotel lobby to the door. The restaurant in the lobby serves the guests until 10:00 p.m. each evening, and there is always room service after that for sandwiches and coffee. It was raining, but he didn’t open his umbrella for the three or four steps it took to the cab. The driver had the windows closed and remained in the front seat. The pretty girl from the hotel desk whispered, The fare to the prison is only six dollars, and some of those cabbies have no conscience. He didn’t look at the driver as he entered and carefully avoided the posted hack license with the picture and the driver’s name, which were required by law to be posted where the passengers could note this information if a complaint of service was to be initiated. It would take a lot for Sergeant Cosgrove to complain about most things. He had built up an acute case of detachment from his fellow man. This came about in 1955 when he was awarded the Silver Star for his rescue of four American servicemen in Korea during the winter of 1950. For conspicuous gallantry in the face of superior enemy forces resulting in the rescue of four American prisoners of war. This had marked him for life. Not a bad mark really, he thought. Certainly, it was nice to be recognized as such to his friends in the regular army. It had opened a few doors for him at times during his twenty-two years of military service. He didn’t have to ask twice for a military school or a transfer to another unit. The paperwork always came back approved the first time. Always with a smile and The best of luck, Sergeant Cosgrove, it was a pleasure to have served with you. And in most cases, he believed them to be sincere. There was a downside of course. That would be the many times civilians, especially those who congratulated him in public not really meaning it, he thought, but hoping his achievements would bounce off him and reflect on them. Edifying him in the presence of other people was an easy situation quencher for these creeps. He felt these types looked down on him and were only promoting themselves.

Deep down, he knew that he really didn’t know. All he could remember that since he looked eyeball-to-eyeball at that enemy soldier forty-seven years ago, he had a hard time looking into most eyes since. Only his wife, he could look her openly. Those soft blue eyes framed in that beautiful face, nearly always with a smile. And that blond hair, he smiled as he said it in a low voice. From blond to redhead, blond to brunette, then back again to blond he remembered; and then unaware of the driver and speaking just above a whisper, he said, I think she was blond 89 percent of the time. He reflected that he never cared what color she had on top of that face he missed so much; she was keeping herself beautiful for him.

I’m sorry, sir, I can’t hear you, the driver interrupted. Excuse me, I was just thinking out loud. No problem, sir, everybody is guilty of that at times. The dispatcher said you called from the hotel that you wanted to be taken to the prison. Yeah, that’s right, Sergeant Cosgrove replied and added, I’m in no real rush, and my appointment is for 6:30. OK, there is only one main road, so I can’t give you the scenic route, the driver said. On a forced voice, he added, Did the dispatcher quote the fare? It’s a fixed rate of nine dollars, OK? That’s fine, driver, Sergeant Cosgrove replied, remembering the girl’s admonition. He thought to himself for the extra three dollars and a tip, he might get a fresh viewpoint about the man he was going to see. The driver, he reasoned, was most likely a local as was the condemned man. All Sergeant Cosgrove had to go on was the newspaper and TV reports, which seemed to be evenly divided on the prisoner’s guilt, but on the execution itself. Maybe the driver knew him or more importantly, the prisoner’s father, Corporal Albritton.

Are you a lawyer, sir? the driver inquired. In a low voice, Sergeant Cosgrove answered, No, I never even met the prisoner. Sarcastically, the driver advised, Wait till we get about a half mile from the joint, you’ll see the do-gooders with their signs. They are about evenly divided with the folks who want him stitched, so he don’t walk in a few years with a college degree in law by mail; and after a few years of room and board, he’ll be turned loose so he can kill another cop. This nigger has been on death row for five years, it’s about time he was put to the sewing machine. What’s the sewing machine? Sergeant Cosgrove asked, trying to sound humorous in a small way. Well, you know, we civilized people don’t toast them, I mean electrocute them anymore, the driver replied to vocalize the words into something more accommodating to the slang used by people of his passenger’s era. Yeah, but what is the sewing machine? Sergeant Cosgrove quizzed again. The driver answered, Well, this is a series of needles the fella gets to do him in, and one of the guys at the bar last night said they should stitch the needles in a sewing machine and run him under it. That brought the house down at the Blue Room, that’s the local bar in town.

Sergeant Cosgrove was glad he didn’t look at the driver. This mouth knows nothing, probably nothing about death and dying. He’s not in the real world. At least he has no information that would be useful to me. Because he could not see the driver, he believed it stood to reason that the driver could not see his face and the look of revulsion that mirrored his thoughts of this slob. Better try to change the conversation, he thought.

Then as a surprise, the driver said, Ya know, I asked if you was a lawyer because I made about six trips to the pen so far since I came on at noon. The guy before you was the biggie, Joseph Byron, the state prosecutor, has been fingering this nigger for the past five years. He’s a slime bucket all right, but he’s got the local citizens behind him 100 percent in this case. If they puncture Albritton this Thursday night like they plan to, Byron starts with a clean slate, or so everybody in the Blue Room thinks. Oh! I was asking you, are you a lawyer or a newsman? I’m just a journalist from a small newspaper in another state, Sergeant Cosgrove lied. Yeah, I thought so. I can narrow down most of my passengers in a few sentences, the driver said with much pride. Here’s a tip if you want some color on this story; stop by the Blue Room up to and including Thursday. It’s been looking like Saturday night all week since the word came out that the final appeal was turned down by the courts. Ya can bet that none of them do-gooders will be there. But I’ll tell you who will be there, the dead cop’s daughter. She works there as a waitress. Oh yeah? Sergeant Cosgrove retorted. Yes, sir, she really don’t belong in a dump like that, but she’s trying to put herself through college. I think she wants to be a teacher or something like that. You know, that’s a good angle, driver, I just might do that. Do you know if anybody from the press has interviewed her yet? If nobody has, I would like to do just that, Sergeant Cosgrove advised the driver. I don’t think so, I really don’t know, but I don’t think so. It’s a small community, ya know, the driver answered and adding, We are a small community, and I ain’t heard a thing like that. I’m filling in for a sick guy; otherwise, I would be glad to fix you up with her, I mean with an interview. She doesn’t like me too much, but I’m sure I could arrange it all right, the driver explained.

This punk is jacking for a big tip. He’s a mouth, that’s for sure. But it just might help me out, who knows, Sergeant Cosgrove reflected to himself. He further reasoned that it might be worth an extra five or six bucks to keep the opportunity opened in case he could use it. His mental analysis was interrupted as the driver spoke again. We are about half mile away; wait till you see these slobs, sir, you won’t believe it. The driver was reducing speed. It was less than a half an hour until darkness, about the same light he had when he first saw a slow-moving group of men from his hidden position in the tree line. General Slattery had informed him that previous night long ago that this mission was important. The task outline was the interdiction and the rescue of ten or more Americans from their Chinese captives. On the wall map, he pointed out the probable position of the marchers. We know, or at least believe, that they are being force-marched to a temporary holding area. It’s at this location on our map. The general stated as he pointed to a flat plain located about one mile outside their line. Looking directly at the young corporal, he said in a low tone, Now hear me good, Corporal Cosgrove, if this group makes it within a half mile of this line, you will not, I repeat, you will not attack; better still, it would be most prudent if they never knew you were in the area. You will have no choice of affecting a rescue. If you can intercept them at least a mile away from their line, then you have a chance of pulling this off. Either way, rescue or no rescue, make your way back on a compass heading of 190 degrees. If division has to fall back, this heading will take you back to me. We will hold at Seoul at all costs which gives you forty miles to cover at the most. Right now, we are about eight miles from Chinese lines. Of course, they and we are sending out patrols in this no-man’s-land, and there is a lot of firefights going on between them and us in this eight-mile area. Which brings me to this second explicit order; in no way are you to get involved in any skirmish even to aid any of our people. Do you understand my order, Corporal? Before the young soldier could answer, the general continued, I’m sorry, Corporal Cosgrove, that I can’t spare any more than two riflemen to assist you in this job. All I can offer you with them is your choice of light weapons. All the grenades and ammo you feel you want just take. Your CO tells me that you’re a sharp soldier, Corporal. You’re a regular, I mean, you’re not a draftee or reservists, are you? No way, no, sir, Corporal Cosgrove replied with a timid smile. This was an inside joke understood by all regular soldiers, enlisted and officers together: the implication being that draftees and reservists were an attitude problem to the military, especially in combat situations. They were here through some fluke of faith, and only regular army people were focused on the military problem before their own personal problems. The joke was wearing thin on everybody in the large tent, but Corporal Cosgrove’s reply to General Slattery’s question managed to generate the appropriate laughter from the two officers and four enlisted men standing by the maps and portable desks. I didn’t think so, Corporal; I believe you were well chosen for the assignment. Sounding more friendly, the general continued, I would like a few personal words with you before I turn you over to my staff who will fill in all the pertinent information that, God willing, will bring you back safely with these captives to us. So if you gentlemen will excuse us for a few minutes, I suggest you go over to the mess tent and have some coffee. The six military intelligent men exited the tent in a slow walk. Corporal Cosgrove noticed that several of them looked at him in a strange way, while the remainder seemed to try avoiding a look at him all together, but summarized that this meant nothing, that they were just tired.

The angry voices outside the cab brought him back from that tent forty years ago to the backseat of the cab that was moving slowly by an angry crowd. It’s all a show. They hardly say anything until a stranger like you drives by. It’s like their all joking to get their mugs on the late news, the driver said. Separated by a thin line of state troopers and local police, the antagonists eyeballed the occupant of the backseat. The driver started to increase his speed in response to a state trooper who had a nervous look on his face. He seemed anxious to get the cab away from the crowd in case the situation might get worse. There it is, sir, the state prison, the driver said in a low voice. Enough light remained to afford a dismal view. The top of the buildings could be observed behind the high wall. Sergeant Cosgrove estimated the building to have at least five levels. At the main entrance, the guard asked the driver, What’s the name of your passenger? I don’t know, he replied. My name is Cosgrove, David Cosgrove, Sergeant Cosgrove interrupted. The guard had a clipboard of names of expected visitors, and without looking at it, he addressed Sergeant Cosgrove, You are expected in the warden’s office in fifteen minutes, sir. Pointing with his free arm, he said, Please go through the left door. Sergeant Cosgrove removed a twenty-dollar bill, and as he handed it to the driver, he said, Keep the change, call it combat pay. Then on an impulse, he added, By the way, what’s your name in case I can make it to the bar like you suggested? Just ask for Fish; everybody knows me as Fish, he replied happily as he removed the money from Sergeant Cosgrove’s hand. And your name is Mr. Cosgrove; I’ll tell you-know-who to be expecting you. You’re okay, Mr. Cosgrove. Yeah, you too, Fish, Sergeant Cosgrove replied, trying not to sound cynical. The guard was about to lead Sergeant Cosgrove to the prison door when his attention was diverted by loud noises coming from the antagonists. Concentrating on this, he turned briefly in Sergeant Cosgrove’s direction and said, When you get inside, please tell the sergeant at the desk that the situation is getting tense out here, and the troopers may need some help in a few minutes. Thanks a lot, sir. Before he reached the door, he heard the electric lock being released and knew that he must have been observed on the perimeter TV monitor. Entering a small room, a voice from an intercom told him to walk to another door about twenty feet from the one he had just entered. Again, the electric lock released, and he entered a large room with several hundred men who were assisting each other in riot gear. Behind him, a calm voice assured him, Just a precaution, Mr. Cosgrove, we probably won’t have to send these men out. If we do, a force this size, it will turn a tense situation around in a few minutes. Sergeant Cosgrove didn’t respond. My name is Tom Hendrick; I’m the warden of this prison. The two men shook hands. While the warden called for an officer near him, Sergeant Cosgrove was busy sizing the warden up. It was a practice he had acquired not so much during his war years, but during the times in between, times spent on overseas duty or at a stateside post. If you were to spend some time with a person either as his superior or as his subordinate, it was wise to get an accurate picture as an indicator on how that person might influence your life from that time forward; indeed it might cost your life if a mistake in judgment were made at this juncture in a new relationship.

He had spoken to the warden by phone a few days before, and while he did not tell him his full reason for wanting to talk to the prisoner, he had told Warden Hendrick that the prisoner was the son of an old army buddy, and he hoped he could be of some comfort to the soon-to-die man. At the onset of the call, Warden Hendrick believed this would be too emotional an experience both for Sergeant Cosgrove and the condemned man. He stated that many people ask for this privilege, but in most cases, they are turned down, except for close members of the family. At the turn of events, Sergeant Cosgrove was relieved and was thinking that this whole idea he had been formulating for the past ten years could be finished, the idea if three out of the four men he had saved that day so long ago were living, or had lived good lives, then he was justified in killing that young Chinese soldier. Was this plan feasible? Because now Private Albritton was dead as were all the members of his family, except this man who he was about to meet, James Albritton. The man was about to die in less than three days. When the warden phoned him at the hotel, he had told Sergeant Cosgrove that upon receiving some consultation, he had changed his mind and would allow Sergeant Cosgrove to meet with the condemned man tonight and possibly one more time before the execution. After this brief meeting with the warden, he felt that the warden was not the kind of person to recant on a decision once he had made up his mind. In these brief few seconds, he had made an accurate opinion of this individual; but then again, maybe not. A feeling he had since the warden’s call kept telling him that this consultation with someone about Sergeant Cosgrove’s visit had nothing to do with an act of kindness; it went deeper than that. The warden finished his instruction and walked slowly back to Sergeant Cosgrove. That same unexplainable look appeared on his facial features, that same look that he remembered on the several faces in that tent when General Slattery had dismissed them for coffee so that he would be alone with the young Corporal Cosgrove. The expression was one of silence, but indicated that they wanted to warn Corporal Cosgrove but could not. A look of guilt perhaps on the faces of men who were basically good, but now were holding back because their careers were compromised, and the risk to them was unacceptable.

The warden spoke and said, Before I take you to Albritton’s cell, there are some people in my office that want to meet with you. Now it starts, Sergeant Cosgrove thought to himself. Some crap was about to be tossed in his way, somebody with a gimmick. He had been through this situation before, so he knew to play dumb. Let them run off at the mouth, don’t express an opinion too fast, and above all, keep cool, don’t get angry, he told himself. The two men walked through some long corridors, and Sergeant Cosgrove rationalized that they were not near the lockups. The walls were painted a hospital white, and while this was an old building, it was renovated several times. All the doors were electronically locked and guarded by the omnipresence of TV monitors. Large windows had replaced most of the walls so that both prisoners and prison staff could be observed at all times. Still, he mused to himself, people do get out of these places once in a while. Away from what was known as general population in prison terms, it was quite in contrast to the roar that went on most of the day. The warden was quiet, which caused Sergeant Cosgrove to say, I guess, Warden, the noise must get on your nerves. Not really, Mr. Cosgrove, I can always retreat to my office, and any guard with some experience knows where to bury himself and yet still do his work. I think, however, that noise is the worst part of an inmate’s time behind bars. The ethnic music, the screaming from one cell to another, all that is the worst part of punishment, not the time or confinement, the warden replied curtly. Sergeant Cosgrove knew the warden would really like to level with him, but couldn’t. And why should he? Why risk a career for the sake of a visitor who would be leaving the state in a few days?

The talk about the noise was just an attempt to get the warden to open up a little. Realizing that he was dealing with a pro, Sergeant Cosgrove decided not to push the matter any further; and instead of asking about whom he was soon to meet, he just kept silent. The two men walked down several long corridors, turning here and there. And from a distance Sergeant Cosgrove observed a large double door with the warden’s name in the center in two-inch letters. This is the only door in this institution that’s never locked, the warden said as he held the door open for his visitor to enter. Inside Sergeant Cosgrove observed two men standing a few feet away from the desk where the third man sat. Warden Hendrick ignored the expected instructions and stared with detachment at the slim balding man who had taken over his desk. Sergeant Cosgrove knew the man sitting was trying to size him up. He was at an advantage as their eyes met. Wait for the something, he thought to himself; is he going to be Mr. Cordial or Mr. Hardnose?

At any rate, Sergeant Cosgrove knew from dealing with literally hundreds of men during his lifetime that he could peg this guy easy; he is a class-one rat. He didn’t need Fish’s recent commentary in the cab ride to confirm this. He enjoyed the ten or so seconds the two men took looking at each other and knew he would not utter a word until rat number one, which he had mentally now labeled him, spoke.

Sergeant Cosgrove, it’s a pleasure to meet you, at last the slim man volunteered. Waiting for a reply and receiving none, the man tensely added, Please sit down. To save face in front of the other two men, he said to the warden, Warden Hendrick, thanks again for the loan of your office. I’m sure you want to return to your men. I hear it’s getting nasty outside the wall. Without answering, the warden turned and walked past Sergeant Cosgrove, looking at him with that look the men in the tent had on their faces so many years ago. Now Sergeant Cosgrove could read men, and knew if he could, the warden would have made a comment, but had thought better of it.

The slim man spoke. You are not from around here, Mr. Cosgrove, so you probably don’t know us. I’m Joe Byron, and these two gentlemen are Detective Sheriff Joe Frawley and Officer Tommy Costigan. Officer Costigan was the murdered police officer’s partner. They both stepped forward and shook his hand. It’s a hard road to walk when you had a lifelong friend killed as this police officer can attest to. But you know about things like that, I’m sure, sir, a man with a lot of combat experience loses a friend every now and then, right, Sergeant."

Sergeant Cosgrove thought to himself, So the bum has backgrounded me. Nobody in this town knows anything, so I guess this guy got through social security, yeah, I started the trail when I used my credit card yesterday. From credit card number, a back-to-back with social security, my military pension number pops up, and if they got the clout, into my military history; and in a few hours, my whole life story is on someone’s desk. Any tinhorn politico with ambitions can scope anyone if he has an in, and this bum has an in. Sergeant Cosgrove’s mental pictures were interrupted as the attorney continued, Military life and the lives of this police officer and his dead friend are almost identical, for the most part a thankless and even frustrating effort, I think you would have to agree, Sergeant.

Don’t answer positive or negative just yet, Sergeant Cosgrove pondered as he spoke, saying, I have never been in police work, but from a military point of view, I have often felt it was just that, like you say, thankless and frustrating. As they say, I think we are on the same glide path, Sergeant. The attorney replied, feeling a little less tense and looking into the faces of his two associates before coming eyeball-to-eyeball with Sergeant Cosgrove. Sergeant Cosgrove mused again to himself, The decoy sentence is working, careful yet as he has to make a concrete overture before I speak.

Trying to pick his words carefully, the slim man spoke slowly and deliberately. You’re too smart a man to attempt to fool. I’m sure you have reached the conclusion that you were checked out before you came into this office and before Warden Hendrick phoned you with an OK to visit the prisoner before the execution. Like you said, you never were in police work, but your army background seems to indicate you have a patriotic bent in your nature. They don’t give out the Silver Star to anybody. What puzzles me about your excellent record is why you never went after a commission.

When I got back from Vietnam in ’67, I gave it much thought; but my wife got very sick, and I didn’t want to be away from her for a minute, Sergeant Cosgrove replied, adding, By the time she died, I was too old for OCS. Seeming to ignore Sergeant Cosgrove’s answer, the lawyer spoke with a stronger voice, saying, I have a reserve commission with the JAG although I never was on active duty except for summer training and some schools. The lawyer looked for an expression on the sergeant’s face as Cosgrove didn’t make a reply or comment to his last statement. Instead, Sergeant Cosgrove was mind busy again. This bum has a staff officer’s rank and never sweated a day for it, and now he uses his rank to pull up data on me; well, there ain’t nothing improper in my 201 file he can pressure me with, that’s why the sweet approach with the compliments. I guess there’s not a difference between lawyers and politicians. As fast as his mind was turning over suppositions, his defense intellect told him speak, or this pig will read a negative comment and clam up, better go straight to his ego. Well, Mr. Byron, I served with many officers who held reserve commissions, and I can’t recall one whom I would refuse to serve with again, Sergeant Cosgrove retorted, and just as fast as he said to himself, I can’t believe I said what I just said. The truth was that those he met in combat situations, he was always wary about. He felt sure of those who came into the army from the academies, or at least held a regular commission. But now was not the time or the place to voice his opinions.

If he was ever to get into see Albritton’s son, he knew he had to convince these three men in this office. Trying to win them over, he said, Mr. Byron, tell me what it’s you want, if I can’t trust a brother soldier, who can I trust? I don’t even know this killer. It was his father who was my friend, a long, long time ago. Sergeant Cosgrove realized the time had come and would play to win or lose on the following sentence. If you think I’m here to let him cry on my shoulder, then I’ll leave now, and no bad feelings. It’s not that important that I talk to him anyhow. Hold on a minute, soldier, back up and take a deep breath, the lawyer exclaimed while he turned again to the two associates at the side of the desk. They were not honed enough to suspect that this retired soldier was playing the high card, but the attorney might catch on. "Let’s put our heads together and rationalize the situation. It’s just that we