The Winston Affair by Howard Fast Page A

know—a more unlikely pair of pals would be hard to find. Quinn’s background was the Liverpool docks. He was tough and brutal, and he looked the part. Young man in his twenties. Weighed better than fourteen stone. When Sergeant Quinn spoke, the enlisted men around here stepped lively. Not a bright fellow. I don’t mean background. I’ve seen some damned fine minds out of the same background. Not Quinn.”
    â€œYou say they were friends—he and Winston?”
    â€œCall it that. They were together a great deal, and they seemed to get something out of each other—” He paused to stuff a short black pipe and light it. “Damn it, Captain, I’m no psychiatrist. Not even Harley Street. I’m a general practitioner who left an excellent if trying practice in Soho because I had certain notions about this war. But if you want my opinion for whatever it’s worth, their relationship was homosexual.”
    â€œDo you mean—” Adams began.
    â€œNo, no—not at all. We really have the most primitive notions of what constitutes homosexuality. I don’t think there was anything physical about this. I don’t believe either of them could have coped with the thought or even understood their motivations. Don’t forget that Winston was twice Quinn’s age. Tall, skinny, depressed type. Overbearing one moment, cringing the next. Mistrustful, suspicious, and not overly bright.”
    â€œYou don’t paint a pretty picture,” Adams said.
    â€œNo indeed. Murder is ugly and terrible, Adams. Murderers are not pleasant or attractive people. Winston was not attractive, not at all. For one thing, he drank too much—and drunk, he was even less winning. He managed to have plenty of liquor on hand. It seems you American chaps leave such loose ends alone. And he used the liquor to get Quinn. They drank together a good deal. Heaven knows, I don’t blame them for that. Evenings in Bachree are hardly inspiring. Winston was a sallow type—this climate is the very devil for the liver—and I warned him about jaundice. But such types don’t worry about physical disability. They exist in a foggy haze of immortality.”
    â€œDo you mean that literally, Major?”
    â€œWell—again, I am not the man for a proper diagnosis. I believe Winston is insane. I believe he’s paranoid. But that is only what I think—” He lit his pipe, which had gone out.
    â€œWere they drinking the night it happened?”
    â€œOh, yes. Whoever is CO here at Bachree uses a little office over the goods depot—the warehouse, which is the only reason for any personnel being here at all. They were drinking there for about two hours, and as I managed to piece it together from what little Winston could explain, Quinn was ragging him on his manliness. You know, taunts about impotence and that sort of thing—I can imagine how Quinn enjoyed seeing the poor devil whine and twist. Quinn cast doubts about the parentage of Winston’s children, and that would strike home.”
    â€œCould you say when they started to drink and when they finished?”
    â€œOnly what I heard later—you understand, Adams? I was not here at the time. But it seems they began to drink shortly before ten. At about midnight, Quinn staggered into his barracks. He woke Sergeant Johnson, the man who met you at the station. Johnson shared a cubicle with Quinn, and the two of them were separated from the other men by a semipartition. The barracks has a door at each end. You can go directly into Quinn’s section or into the other section. When Quinn awakened Johnson, Johnson noticed the time. He helped Quinn, who was quite drunk, to get his shoes off. Then they both went to sleep.
    â€œAn hour or so later, Johnson was awakened by the sound of a man swearing hysterically.”
    â€œSwearing?”
    â€œCursing. Screaming the curses.” That’s how Johnson described