A Matter of Honor

“I might join you later,” said Adam, “but I still have one or two papers left over from this afternoon that I ought to check through.”

“Forget the finer details of your inheritance, my boy. Why not join us and spend the entire windfall in one wild spaghetti fling?”

“Oh, have you been left lots of lovely lolly?” asked Carolyn, in a voice so shrill and high-pitched that nobody would have been surprised to learn that she had recently been Deb of the Year.

“Not,” said Adam, “when considered against my present overdraft.”

Lawrence laughed. “Well, come along later if you discover there’s enough left over for a plate of pasta.” He winked at Adam—his customary sign for “Be sure you’re out of the flat by the time when we get back. Or at least stay in your own room and pretend to be asleep.”

“Yes, do come,” cooed Carolyn, sounding as if she meant it—her hazel eyes remained fixed on Adam as Lawrence guided her firmly toward the door.

Adam didn’t move until he was sure he could no longer hear her penetrating voice echoing on the staircase. Satisfied, he retreated to his bedroom and locked himself in. Adam sat down on the one comfortable chair he possessed and pulled his father’s envelope out of his inside pocket. It was the heavy, expensive type of stationery Pa had always used, purchasing it at Smythson of Bond Street for almost twice the price he could have obtained it for at the local W. H. Smith’s. “Captain Adam Scott, M.C.” was written in his father’s copperplate hand.

Adam opened the envelope carefully, his hand shaking slightly, and extracted the contents: a letter in his father’s unmistakable hand and a smaller envelope that was clearly old, as it was faded with time. Written on the old envelope in an unfamiliar hand were the words “Colonel Gerald Scott” in faded ink of indeterminate color. Adam placed the old envelope on the little table by his side and, unfolding his father’s letter, began to read. It was undated.

My dear Adam,

Over the years, you will have heard many explanations for my sudden departure from the regiment. Most of them will have been farcical, and a few of them slanderous, but I always considered it better for all concerned to keep my own counsel. I feel, however, that I owe you a fuller explanation, and that is what this letter will set out to do.

As you know, my last posting before I resigned my commission was at Nuremberg from February 1945 to October 1946. After four years of almost continuous action in the field I was given the task of commanding the British section that had responsibility for those senior-ranking Nazis who were awaiting trial for war crimes. Although the Americans had overall responsibility, I came to know the imprisoned officers quite well, and after a year or so I had even grown to tolerate some of them, Hess, Doenitz and Speer in particular, and I often wondered how the Germans would have treated us had the situation been reversed. Such views were considered unacceptable at the time. “Fraternization” was often on the lips of those men who are never given to second thoughts.

Among the senior Nazis with whom I came into daily contact was Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering, but unlike the three other officers I have previously mentioned, here was a man I detested from the first moment I came across him. I found him arrogant, overbearing and totally without shame about the barbaric role he had played in the war. And I never once found any reason to change my opinion of him. In fact I sometimes wondered how I didn’t end up on several occasions hitting him.

The night before Goering was due to be executed, he requested a private meeting with me. It was a Monday, and I can still recall every detail of that encounter as if it were only yesterday. I received the request when I took over the Russian watch from Major Vladimir Kosky. In fact Kosky personally handed me the written request. As soon as I had inspected the guard and dealt with the usual paperwork I went along with the duty corporal to see the Reichsmarschall in his cell. Goering stood to attention by his small low bed and saluted as I entered the room. The sparse, gray-painted brick cell always made me shudder.

“You asked to see me?” I said. I never could get myself to address him by his name or rank.

“Yes,” he replied. “It was kind of you to come in person, Colonel. I simply wish to make the last request of a man condemned to death. Would it be possible for the corporal to leave us?”

Imagining it was something highly personal, I asked the corporal to wait outside. I confess I had no idea what could be so private when the man only had hours to live, but as the door closed he saluted again and then passed over the envelope you now have in your possession. As I took it all he said was, “Would you be kind enough not to open this until after my execution tomorrow.” He then added, “I can only hope it will compensate for any blame that might later be placed on your shoulders.” I had no idea what he could be alluding to at the time and presumed some form of mental instability had overtaken him. Many of the prisoners confided in me during their last few days, and toward the end some of them were undoubtedly on the verge of madness.

Adam stopped to consider what he would have done in the same circumstances, and decided to read on to discover whether father and son would have taken the same course.

However, Goering’s final words to me as I left his cell seemed hardly those of a madman. He said quite simply: “Be assured it is a masterpiece; do not underestimate its value.” Then he lit up a cigar as if he was relaxing at his club after a rather good dinner. We all had different theories as to who smuggled the cigars in for him, and equally wondered what might also have been smuggled out from time to time.

I placed the envelope in my jacket pocket and left him to join the corporal in the corridor. We then checked the other cells to see that all the prisoners were locked up for the night. The inspection completed, I returned to my office. As I was satisfied that there were no more immediate duties, I settled down to make out my report. I left the envelope in the jacket pocket of my uniform with every intention of opening it immediately after Goering’s execution had been carried out the following morning. I was checking over the orders of the day when the corporal rushed into my office without knocking. “It’s Goering, sir, it’s Goering,” he said frantically. From the panic on the man’s face, I didn’t need to ask for any details. We both ran all the way back to the Reichsmarschall’s cell.

I found Goering lying face downward on his bunk. I turned him over to find he was already dead. In the commotion that immediately followed I quite forgot Goering’s letter. An autopsy a few days later showed that he had died from poisoning; the court came to

the conclusion that the cyanide capsule that had been found in his body must have been implanted in one of his cigars.

As I had been the last to see him alone, it took only a few whispers before my name was linked with his death. There was, of course, no truth in the accusation; indeed I never doubted for one moment that the court had delivered the correct verdict in his case and that he justly deserved to be hanged for the part he had played in the war.

So stung was I by the continual behind-the-back accusations that I might have helped Goering to an easy death by smuggling in the cigars that I felt the only thing to do in the circumstances was to resign my commission immediately for fear of bringing further dishonor to the regiment. When I returned to England later that year and finally decided to throw out my old uniform I came across the envelope again. When I explained to your mother the details of the incident she begged me to destroy the envelope, as she considered it had brought enough dishonor to our family already, and even if it did point to whoever had been responsible for helping Goering to his suicide, in her opinion such knowledge could no longer do anyone any good. I agreed to comply with her wishes, and although I never opened the envelope I could never get myself to destroy it, remembering that last sentence Goering had uttered about it being a masterpiece. And so finally I hid it among my personal papers.

However, since the imagined sins of the father are inevitably visited upon the next generation I feel no such qualms should influence you. If there is there for anything to be gained from the contents of this envelope, I make only one request, namely that your mother should be the first to benefit from it without ever being allowed to know how such good fortune came about.

Over the years I have watched your progress with considerable pride and feel confident that I can leave you to make the correct decision.

If you are left in doubt about opening the envelope yourself, destroy it without further consideration. But if you open it only to discover its purpose is to involve you in some dishonorable enterprise, be rid of it without a second thought.

May God be with you.

Your loving father,

Gerald Scott

Adam read the letter over once again, realizing how much trust his father had placed in him. His heart thumped in his chest as he considered how Pa’s life had been wasted by the murmurings and innuendos of lesser men. The same men who had succeeded in bringing his own career to a premature halt. When he had finished reading the missive for a third time he folded it up neatly and slipped it back into its envelope.