FIVE MARKS

A light, cool breeze sent dry leaves and paper scraps scurrying along the cobbled street.

Frank Fuller, Pete Grey and I had been brought together as only a hot war can, setting us apart, a feeling for each other unknown by those in the outside world.

We indulged our private fantasies without interruption except for an occasional remark provoked by a graceful, shy girl who averted her eyes as she passed our table.

Although the wine was red, cloudy and bitter, it built an easy, relaxed mood permitting thoughts of things far removed, underlying always the disquieting thought that we would soon catch up to the war.

A Jeep entered the square with a rush and squealing of tires.  The drowsy peacefulness was shattered much as a galloping horse might send a farmyard into bedlam on a warm Sunday afternoon.

Skidding to a halt, the vehicle raised a curtain of dust that settled slowly as Captain Blythe stepped to the table, enveloped by a miniature whirlwind.

In a much too loud voice, he announced, “Lieutenant James Hannon!”

“Yes sir.”  I placed my elbows on the table, leaning forward expectantly.

“You’re under arrest!”

As I lurched to my feet the table tipped, wine glasses and bottle shattering on the worn tile.  Fuller and Grey remained seated.

“O.K., Captain, fill us in on the rest of the joke.”

Ignoring Grey, the Captain stepped closer.  “This is no joke, let’s go, Lieutenant.”

“We have a Jeep, we’ll follow you, Captain.”

Captain Blythe stepped back warily, his hand resting lightly on the holstered .45.  “Are you coming, Lieutenant?”

I shrugged and spoke to the others, “Follow us--”  I was no less surprised with my turn of fortune than were the men who knew me. I was, surely, an unlikely candidate for any charge warranting arrest.

Fuller was an inch shorter and twenty pounds heavier than I, a formidable physical specimen.  On occasions he drank too much, but that was an indulgence most everyone shared.

Grey was a little removed from our closeness. We were platoon leaders in the same company, sharing the long voyage and all that followed.

The incredible ordeal began while I waited unbelieving as the vagaries were spelled out.

Major Watson studied the charges on his desk.  He shook his massive head from side to side then leaned back and looked across the table.  I met the stern look, matching it in intensity as the Major glanced around the room.

“At ease.”  He spoke quietly, almost kindly.

“Lieutenant, you should know the nature, the serious nature of these charges and the consequences to you – if they are true.” 

As he looked up slowly, the Major’s face clouded.  “Are they?”

The interval grew heavy and uncomfortable.

“What are the charges?”  My words were barely audible.

The scene was unreal, incredible, not knowing the inherent danger in the threat waiting to assail me.

“You are charged and, according to this document, there is an abundance of substantiating evidence, Lieutenant, you are charged with three specific counts as follows:  One, representing yourself as the Officer officially authorized to request information for this Headquarters from Base Headquarters; two, requesting classified information regarding future troop movements from this area, including destination of those movements.”

Watson looked directly across the desk at me and, continuing to stare fixedly, went on.  “And three, transmitting the information received to civilian persons, French and Arab in appearance, in public places off limits to military personnel.”

The closing paragraph of the charges suggested that the civilian persons mentioned in count three could be construed as enemy agents.