The Chequer Board (33 page)

Major Carter stood up in the front bench. He did not
wear wig and gown. He wore a uniform practically identical with that of the prisoner, with the emblem of the Parachute Regiment on the shoulder of his rough serge battledress. The crown on his epaulette was the only distinction between them.

“May it please your Lordship,” he said, “I appear for the prisoner.”

The Judge glanced slowly from the counsel to the prisoner, and back to the counsel. A thin, wintry smile appeared on his lips. He bowed slightly. “Very well, Mr Carter. You are for the defence.” He leaned back in his seat. “Proceed.”

Mr Constantine Paget stood up, a sheaf of papers in his hand, and opened the case for the Crown. The case concerned, he said, a Mr Michael Seddon, a boilermaker by trade, who met his death in the Miller Hospital at Greenwich as a result of injuries sustained outside a public house known as the Goat and Compasses in Albion Street, New Cross, on the night of March 22, 1943. He would call evidence to prove a quarrel between the deceased man and the defendant in the public house, and to prove that this quarrel continued in the street after closing time, which was ten-thirty. He would call medical evidence relating to the injuries that the deceased sustained. He would call evidence to show the court that the defendant was a man of violent passions, and he would bring to the court the only witness of the struggle which resulted in the fatal injuries to the deceased, the young lady friend of the defendant. With this evidence he would show the court that here was a case of wilful murder, and he would ask the jury for a conviction in those terms.

He then proceeded to call the barman, who gave evidence of the quarrel, and the landlord’s daughter, who gave evidence about the telephone call received ten minutes after closing time from an unknown caller. He called the house surgeon of the Miller Hospital for evidence of the cause of death. For the violent passions, he called a Mr Isidore Levy, a commission agent of Southampton, who deputed that in 1942 the defendant and another man had come in and wrecked his office and injured him so severely that he had to spend a week in bed, following an argument about paying out after a dog race. In cross-examination by Mr Carter, this witness admitted that he had not brought the matter to the notice of the police, for business reasons. Finally Mr Constantine Paget produced a most reluctant Phyllis Styles of the A.T.S. and put her in the box, and he examined her on her sworn deposition in the police court, proving what had taken place outside the pub.

Major Carter rose to cross-examine her. She knew he was a friend of Duggie’s and greeted him with a bright smile.

“Miss Styles,” he said, “what was the original cause of this quarrel in the public house? What happened first of all?”

“He started saying ever such rude things to Duggie,” she said at once. “He’d had a bit too much.”

The counsel said, “Well, let’s leave that for the moment. Will you tell us, what exactly did he say?”

Patiently he extracted from her, for the benefit of the jury, all that Mr Seddon had thought fit to say about the paratrooper’s fancy hat. “This hat that caused so much trouble,” he enquired, “what sort of hat was it?”

She said, “His beret. You know, what they all wear now.”

Major Carter reached down to the seat beside him and picked up his own maroon beret, and held it up. “To make the matter quite clear, Miss Styles, was it a hat like this?”

She said, “That’s right, sir; just like yours. The Parachute beret.”

The counsel glanced towards the jury, and dropped his beret back on to the seat beside him. A faint smile crossed the features of the Judge. Major Carter went on and took her through the entire quarrel; the court heard all Mr Seddon’s opinions of the work done by the Army and his views on the Second Front. And after ten minutes of all this, he said:

“And now, Miss Styles, I want you to tell the court exactly what the deceased man last said before he was attacked by Corporal Brent.”

He turned to the Judge. “May it please your Lordship, it may well be that the court would wish that the witness should write down the answer to this question rather than give a verbal answer.”

The Judge looked at the girl, slim and erect in her A.T.S. uniform. “Would you rather write down the words that the deceased man used?” he said.

But Private Phyllis Styles had seen two years of service in an A.A. battery, and had few inhibitions. “I don’t mind saying it if you don’t mind hearing it,” she replied. “He said I was a mucking Army tart, wearing a fancy tart’s hat.” She put her hand up to the gay forage cap tucked under the epaulette of her tunic, and glanced at the jury, as
Major Carter had before. “This one, he meant. Then he give Duggie a terrible kick up his behind and Duggie went for him.”

Mr Constantine Paget leaned back in his seat, stifling a smile. He was going down on this case, he could see, all on account of these blessed hats; he did not greatly care. He doubted if the jury would give murder after what the girl had said. He did not really want them to. His duty was to present the case for the Crown but not to strive for victory at the expense of what was right. He rose slowly to his feet for re-examination of the witness, and said:

“Now, Miss Styles, what happened after the deceased man used the words that you have told us, and before he kicked Corporal Brent? The corporal said something, didn’t he?”

The girl said reluctantly, “Well, yes, he said he was the scum of bloody Dublin, and one or two things like that.”

“Thank you, Miss Styles. And then what happened, after that?”

“Well, he kicked Duggie, like I said.”

“Thank you.” He turned to the Judge. “My Lord, I have no further evidence to offer.”

Major Carter rose to his feet. “May it please your Lordship,” he said, “
I
have no witnesses with the exception of the accused man, Douglas Theodore Brent, whom I propose to bring forward as a witness on his own behalf. I have no hesitation in proceeding in this way because I am convinced that he has nothing to conceal from cross-examination by my learned friend, and because by doing so I shall convince the court not only that no question of
murder is involved but also that the deceased man met his death due solely to the circumstances of the war in which this country is engaged.”

The Judge raised his eyebrows. “Very well.”

Major Carter said, “Call Douglas Theodore Brent.”

Duggie Brent was taken from the dock by the escort and put into the witness box; he was in uniform and bareheaded. He moved with the quick grace of perfectly developed muscles; his red curly hair was as untidy as ever. In spite of his serious position he looked tolerably cheerful.

He took his oath, and his counsel started to interrogate him. He gave his age as twenty-two, and the court heard that he had joined the Army at the age of seventeen, in 1938, After the preliminaries, his counsel said:

“Now, Corporal Brent, when you were called up in 1939, were you fully trained?”

“No, sir,” the corporal said. “I didn’t know hardly anything.”

“I see. What weapon were you taught the use of first, after you were called up?”

“The rifle, sir.”

“Yes. Were vou taught to shoot with it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What at?”

“Targets, sir.”

“What sort of targets?”

“Pictures of men advancing in open order, or behind a tank, or that.”

“Yes, pictures of men.” He paused. “Now after that, Corporal, what did they teach you to do next?”

“To attack with the bayonet, sir.”

“Yes. What did you attack?”

“Dummies, sir. Dummies representing enemy soldiers.”

“Yes. What did you have to do with these dummies?”

“Run at them, ’n run them through with the bayonet, sir.”

“As if you were trying to kill them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see. How long did this bayonet training go on for?” Brent hesitated. “About three months, I think—off and on.”

“And at the end of it, were your instructors satisfied that you could kill a man easily and quickly with the bayonet?”

“Yes, sir. I passed out top of my platoon.”

The counsel said drily, “They must have been very pleased with you. How old were you then?”

“Eighteen, sir.”

Mr Justice Lambourn raised his head. “Mr Carter, is all this relevant to your case?”

The Major said, “If I may have the indulgence of the court, my Lord, I shall show presently that all this is extremely relevant to the case that is before us.”

The Judge leaned back in his chair. “Very well, Mr Carter.”

The counsel said, “Now, Corporal Brent, what did they teach you to do after that?”

He took the corporal step by step through his whole military education, with a furtive eye on the jury, watching for the first signs of boredom. For twenty minutes he displayed to them the processes by which the corporal had been trained for four years to kill men, to kill them with
grenade and flame thrower, to kill them with the Sten gun and with the beer bottle that went off. And when at last the jury began shuffling and coughing, he said:

“Now, Corporal Brent, you volunteered for the Commandoes, did you not?” Mr Constantine Paget sat up in sudden protest at the lead, and sank back again, watchful of his colleague. It was all wrong, but it would save time.

“Yes, sir.”

“When was that?”

“In June last year, sir.”

“What unit were you sent to?”

“Number Eleven Commando Training Unit, sir.”

“What was the first thing you were taught to do there?”

“Fight with knives, sir. You remember that—you taught the course.”

The Major said smoothly, “Well, yes.”

Mr Constantine Paget rose to his feet; he could not let the defence get away with that. “My Lord,” he said, “I really must protest. The actions of my learned friend in another place and in another capacity can have no bearing on this case.”

Mr Justice Lambourn raised his head. “Mr Carter?”

The counsel said, “My Lord, I did not seek the evidence to which my learned friend objects. But since the matter has been mentioned, it is right that you should know I serve the King in two capacities. I assist in the discovery of the King’s justice in these courts. In another capacity and in another place, by order of the King passed to me through his officers, I teach men such as Douglas Theodore Brent to kill other men with knives. I cannot dissociate my two responsibilities to the Monarch, and it is right that
this court should know the full extent of the duties that I carry out for him. Moreover, if I may have your indulgence, I shall show my learned friend that this evidence is not irrelevant to the case before us, in its wider aspects.”

There was a long, slow silence in the court. The jury sat tense and alert; there was no boredom now. At last the Judge inclined his head, smiled faintly, and said, “Yes, Mr Carter?” Mr Constantine Paget shrugged his shoulders testily, and sat down again.

The counsel turned to the prisoner. “Yes, I taught you to fight with knives. Were you taught to do this noisily or quietly, Corporal Brent?”

“Quietly, sir.”

“Yes. Were you taught to approach your victim from the front?”

“No, sir. We was to creep up behind him in the dark and stick him in the back.”

“How many ways of doing this were you taught?”

“Three ways, sir.”

The counsel said, “Yes. I taught you three different ways of creeping up behind a man in the darkness to stab him in the back.” There was dead silence in the court. “How old were you then, Corporal Brent?”

“Twenty, sir.”

The counsel with supreme artistry bent down and shuffled with his papers, searching for a document; there was a long, painful pause. The foreman of the jury whispered something to the man next to him. Mr Constantine Paget whispered to his junior, “Fancy letting him go on like this! Lambourn is just giving him the case.” Presently the Major straightened up, a paper in his hand.

“Now, Corporal Brent,” he said, “when you left that course, what course did you go on?”

“Unarmed Combat, sir.”

“Yes, you went on to a course in Unarmed Combat. What did they teach you to do there?”

“We was taught how to attack an armed man just with our hands and feet, sir.”

“Yes. Were you taught to treat him gently?”

“No, sir. We was taught how to kill him.”

“Yes, you were taught how to kill a man with your bare hands, assisted by your feet. How did you get on, Corporal? What grade did you receive on passing out from this course?”

“I was graded ‘satisfactory,’ sir.”

“Who signed your grading certificate?”

“Captain Willis, sir.”

The counsel held up the paper in his hand. “My Lord, I have this grading certificate here, signed by an officer who holds the King’s commission, stating that he has trained the prisoner in the form of attack that you have heard described, and that his progress was satisfactory. If my learned friend desires, I will call Captain Willis tomorrow morning to prove this document in evidence, but on account of his urgent military duties I am anxious to avoid that course. If my learned friend can consent to treat this document as if it had been proven, it will assist the progress of the war.”

It was passed up to the Judge, who glanced at it and passed it down to the prosecution. Mr Constantine Paget glanced at it, and nodded. The Judge nodded to Major Carter, who turned to the prisoner, and said:

“Corporal Brent, did anybody ever teach you boxing?”

“No, sir.”

“Apart from this course in Unarmed Combat, did anybody ever teach you how to fight with your hands, at any time?”

“No, sir.”

“Was this course the only sort of instruction you have ever had in fighting without a weapon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, Corporal Brent, take your mind back to the night on which this man, Mr Seddon, met his death. When you attacked him on the pavement outside the public house, what were your feelings towards him?” the Major asked.

The corporal hesitated. “I was kind of blind mad,” he said at last. “I just went for him.”

“You were very angry with him?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“Why was that?”