Soldiers and Marines Saga, page 26
“Don’t tell’em shit, Davy” was my affectionate farewell. “Make sure they think it’s all about pinpoint drops of relief supplies to isolated villages.”
To the consternation of NATO, and the staff at Campbell Barracks, where the commander of the American forces in Europe is located, the Secretary of the Army also moved a medium truck company, based in Germany, away from NATO, and assigned it to the African assistance office located somewhere in the office of a relatively insignificant Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense. Providing equipment, and troops, to support the army’s program for African relief assistance, had been added to her long list of peripheral duties.
The trucking company was relocated to Riems and permanently assigned to the Detachment for use exclusively for African disaster relief and other non-military purposes, directly under the control of the Secretary of the Army. Charlie was looking at his fingernails, and smiling benignly, as Dave Shelton told us all about it.
I’m pretty sure I know who drafted the order, and got it signed.
Dave took a sip of Coke, and then reported that the rumor is that the staff at Campbell Barracks is seriously pissed, and will try to regain control of the transportation company. Charlie shook his head, and mouthed “never happen.”
Obtaining the truck company was particularly good news, according to Charlie, because we can park the army enlisted men, and junior officers, we need on its roster. Even better, Mike Morton reported, a full complement of our Marine, and Coast Guard, Swimmers was now fully trained up, and ready to go. Their gear and explosives were on pallets in the warehouse.
If the stuff out back blows, we’re history. I trust Mike, but maybe I should get a second opinion, to make sure it’s safe.
After beating the subject half to death, we’d come up with how we’ll get the swimmers to the more distant bridges, with a decent shot at getting back. Sikorsky Flying Cranes will carry fuel bladders to isolated areas selected by our mission planners. Basically, the Huey troop carriers will stop and refuel, drop the swimmers well upstream of the bridges, then relocate downstream to pick them up. They’s gas up again at the refueling points on their way home.
In any event, I authorized Charlie to buy the necessary fuel bladders, “for use in our African relief projects.” They’ll be delivered to Reims, and stored in one of our warehouses, until we can ship them "to Africa.”
******
Another operation has come to mind. So it was time to visit Professor General Speidel once again at NATO headquarters. So I drove to Brussels in the Mercedes sedan I bought a couple of months ago, and got a fairly warm welcome from a man not particularly noted for his warmth. He thought I was coming to discuss my dissertation, and schedule its defense, before my dissertation committee. I wasn’t.
We did briefly discuss the dissertation, and scheduled my presentation, and defense of it, for the seventh of next month. He will preside as my dissertation adviser and chairman.
Over a wonderful private lunch at NATO’s Brussels headquarters, to which he graciously invited me, Herr General Professor Doktor Speidel reiterated, once again, that he was increasingly concerned about the future of NATO’s peace with the Soviets because of the abject failure of the Soviet economic system.
The food at NATO’s headquarters is superb. Probably, because all the cooks are Cordon Bleu chefs who, in the interest of defending western civilization, receive deferments from being drafted by Belgium, until they complete their training and apprenticeships.
“Sooner or later,” Speidel said, as he waved his fork at me, “the economic failures inherent in their system will drive them to war to distract their citizens. It is inevitable. The only question is how soon it will occur.”
The importance of economics had been a theme of Professor Speidel’s lectures, and now it’s part of General Speidel’s military considerations.
General Speidel was one of the few people outside the detachment who knew about my plan to cut the Trans-Siberian railroad to deny the Soviets reinforcements from the east. Over dessert, blueberry cobbler drizzled with cognac, he assured me that he would swear his replacement to secrecy when he retires, and explain why, in the event of war with the Soviets, all the men and officers, of a particular engineering battalion of the German airborne division, must be immediately trucked to a particular hangar at the Riems airport, and given no other assignments.
Every man in the battalion is a career soldier, and he was sure, Speidel said primly, every one of them is now, and always will be, appropriately trained for heavy demolitions. He was pleased when I reported that we are immediately ready to employ them, including having the detailed operational orders for each team in hand, and all the necessary supplies and explosives, on pallets, and ready to be loaded on planes.
Speidel is so sure of the specifics; it’s almost as if he himself once planned such an operation.
Then I brought up the real reason for my visit. Is it possible for two English-speaking German officers to be assigned to my detachment on a permanent basis, to plan and lead a panzer operation, officers who are each capable of leading an independent Panzer Brigade?
I sketched out the plan for him in front of the map on the wall of his office.
He liked it. “Very bold, Herr Brigadier, very bold. I like it. Off the NATO books. Ja, I like it.”
******
Three weeks later, Oberstleutnants Wolfgang Tomas and Dieter Doppelfeld, stood rigidly at attention in front of Speidel. They didn’t know it, of course, but at the request of General Speidel, both they, and their wives, have just been seriously vetted by both German and American intelligence. Both men have had experience commanding Panzer battalions, and both are graduates of the German General Staff Course, which means they are smart guys, and destined for higher ranks.
“Please be seated, Gentlemen. There is an opportunity for you to be of great service to the army, and Germany. It will require you to move your families to a nearby European country, and work with the Americans, on an American led international project. It would be for a term of not less than four years, and fully meet your tour of service with a foreign army requirement for further promotion.”
Then, after a pause, he elaborated.
“I think each of you would find the assignment quite rewarding professionally, but, naturally, you must decide for yourselves. Before you can learn about it, however, you must sign the same confidentiality document the American officers sign. By signing it, you are promising not to disclose anything to anybody, not even your wives. There will be the most serious of consequences if you ever do.”
They both signed, and two hours later stood before Speidel again. This time I was present.
“Here with us is Herr Brigadegeneral Doktor Roberts of the American Army. He will explain the duties of the officers he is seeking.”
Yes I passed my PhD exams last month and have the degree in hand.
Two hours later, a beaming Speidel stood by as both officers formally signed to accept four year tours in their new positions. Now each will go home, and tell his wife that he had no choice but to take the dead end position on offer, or retire. In effect, they will explain to their wives, the German army is making a place for them in case they are needed in the future.
Their wives were also to be told that they must appear at all times to be very disappointed in the status of their husband’s careers, and report even the most innocent inquiries about what their husbands are doing. That, of course, will tell their wives that their careers are nowhere near as bad as they might seem.
******
My love life flopped again. Heide was off touring with the National Theatre again and Renate’s boyfriend had returned to working full time in the home office. But I did buy a place to live. It’s a nice comfortable, big, old, two story, country house with high ceilings. It’s fairly large, certainly much more than I need, and extremely comfortable. The house is within walking distance of the river, and has a fish pond, with a creek running from it to the river. It’s about six kilometers from the Detachment, and a twenty minute walk to either of the nearest villages. I bought it fully furnished.
“Oui mon major, sign here, here, and here.”
And just like that, I became a French taxpayer.
Ever since Le Monde published the picture of me getting the medal as a Legion officer, the locals have been convinced I am a Legion officer working with the Americans, and others, in an international relief project in Africa. France is big in Africa.
Oberstleutnants Tomas and Dopplefeld arrived a few days later. They were a bit stiff at first, but within a few days they settled in, and loosened up a bit. At least they no longer jumped to attention, and clicked their heels, whenever Dave and I entered the room. They were not used to working in civvies and the easy informality that exists between American officers and senior NCOs.
Wolfi and Dieter were smart guys, however, and instantly grasped what we were doing, and why. Their eyes had absolutely lit up, and they had sat up even straighter, when Speidel and I explained the two operations we wanted them to help organize. Each, I’m sure, wants to command one of them if they occur.
That’s exactly what I’m hoping because if those operations are going to work, we’ll need to have them planned very, very carefully. And who better to do it than someone who hoped to be responsible for one of them?
The first is a seaborne invasion of East Germany’s Baltic coast using some of the West German civilian ferries to carry German troops and armor. We’ll try to get ferries to the East German coast via the Kiel Canal but, if the canal is closed by the war, we’ll go the longer way around Jutland. In other words, we’re going to organize, and carry out,a German equivalent of the Inchon landing.
Our second operation was pretty much the same as the first, and would be launched at the very same moment, if there is a war. It was a similar attack into the enemy’s rear by fast moving West German Leopard tanks and their support vehicles. They would come out of a staging area in a hidden facility, an old chicken farm of all things, we had recently acquired near the East German border. It was in an area that was likely, we thought and hoped, to be bypassed by the invading Warsaw Pact armies. The tanks would be out of sight under the old tin roofs that used to protect the chickens from the rain and snow. The Porks will ride again.
I had another idea, but I needed to do some more homework before I announced it, and we began working it up—motorcycle troops, with handheld anti-tank and anti-air missiles, functioning as skirmishers; men we can quickly throw into gaps and breakthroughs that might develop.
I’m still not sure whether the troops should be Germans or Americans. Maybe it will end up being both, if we can get our hands on enough wheels and missiles. Rangers would be perfect, if enough of them are motorcycle riders.
******
Charlie Caine and I went off to the Paris embassy together to see Ann. We need money to fix up yet another of the French warehouses, and we need to put a new, and better, security fence around the whole shebang. We’ll also need an expanded security force, and some place to stash them, when they aren’t on duty.
Ann and Charlie became good friends long ago, and seem to work well together. They immediately began strategizing how to get the funding for the “improvements.” They said they’d work late, and send out for pizza.
“We’ll have something for you tomorrow, Chris. I’ll get a ride back with the new Marines in the morning.”
I was about to leave, and drive back to Riems, when Georgia Gates, the wife of the new military attaché, arrived to accompany him to a reception the ambassador was giving in his residence next door. Apparently it’s for some visiting American politician who was his old college roommate. Georgia had an idea.
“Come on, Chris, let’s go next door and get some free food.”
“I can’t go like this,” I said as I waved my hand at my clothes. I was wearing a white turtleneck shirt and a blue sports jacket.
“Sure you can. You’re an American, and the Ambassador has invited half the Americans in France.”
“You guys go ahead. I have to make a couple of phone calls from the communications room. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
Chapter Nine
Richard Gates, Georgia’s husband, was on the embassy staff, even though he was an army officer. He and Georgia were expected to be among the very first to arrive at every embassy reception so that enough of the embassy staff were on hand to greet the early-bird guests and make them feel important.
When I finished my calls, I walked next door. It was about thirty minutes later, and the reception was just starting. A large crowd of people, mostly overdressed Americans, was waiting to go through the security checkpoint at the entrance to the Ambassador’s residence.
I could have walked around them and waved at the Marines checking invitations, but I didn’t. The crowd was thick and I didn’t know any of them.
I was, I realized, feeling lonely.
Through the plate glass windows, I could look into the reception area and see the early arrivals. Most of them were standing around, stiffly holding glasses, and engaged in the meaningless chatter that inevitably accompanies such events.
Then I saw an exception—a woman who somehow absolutely radiated warmth. She was carrying her raincoat, and I could see from her face, and the way she reached out and touched people, that she was pleasant and friendly. She was a big contrast from the stilted formality of the others. Truth be told, watching her almost hurt. It made me realize I was lonely, and only had a few real friends.
Hell, except for Charlie Caine and Ann, and maybe Dave and Joan and the Talleys and Spellings, I didn’t have any.
My turn to go through the front door of the embassy finally came. After saying hello to one of the Marines at the door, I got in line to check my raincoat, and umbrella. Just as I was about to hand them to a Marine sergeant I knew because he sometimes worked guard duty at the detachment, I saw the woman with the raincoat get in the rather long coat check line behind me.
I don’t know why but out of the side of my mouth I gave the Marine an urgent order in a low voice. “Whatever you do in the next few minutes Harry, don’t mention my rank in front of any of these people. Just call me Boss.”
Then I moved around to the other side of the counter, and waited.
“Good evening madam, may I take your coat? Thank you. Your name please?”
“Dorothy Shelly.”
“Miss or Madam?” I asked with a smile as I wrote it on the ticket stub that would stay with the coat. A winning smile, I hope.
“Madam.” Damn.
“Your phone number this evening?” I said it as I looked at her with my pen poised above the stub. Her eyebrows lifted.
“In case your coat goes missing, of course, and we have to contact you when we find it.”
If you were a “miss” it almost certainly would have been hopelessly lost.
“I don’t know. I’m staying here at the embassy with my father and mother this evening. The ambassador’s one of my father’s old college roommates, so we’ll probably be here for a couple of days.”
“Oh dear. That is a very serious problem. Please step over here,” I said with a gesture towards the end of the counter, and an apologetic smile to the couple who were next in line.
“You told me you are Madam Shelly, but I can clearly see that you are not wearing a wedding ring. Can you explain that?”
She answered with a slightly incredulous look. “I can, but why should I?”
“Security ma’am. Terrorism you know. Paris is beset with Algerian and Secret Army terrorists. For all we know, you’re an Algerian lady who has taken off her burqa, and plans to blow the place up, or perhaps a French woman who intends to leave a bomb.”
“Well, if you must know, I have no ring because I’m a Mrs. on the way to becoming Miss again. I’m in the process of a divorce.”
“Good. I mean that’s good to know. But you did raise some questions as to your legitimacy, so I’m afraid I’ll have to question you further in some detail.” I said it with what I hoped was my best, and most winning, smile.
“You are trying to pick me up, aren’t you?” She said it with a smile, and studied me closely.
“Yes, I suppose I am. And I hope I’m succeeding. My name, by the way, is Chris Roberts.”
Then, without giving her a chance to say a word, I gave an order to my old friend, Harry.
“Harry, old friend, please trot over to the bar, and bring us a couple of glasses of champagne. And none of the cheap swill the ambassador is serving.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
I gave Dorothy my most winning smile, I hope, and made a suggestion.
“This may be France but the wine served at the embassy is American, and is inevitably as bad as the over-cooked chicken that will undoubtedly be the main course this evening.” I said it with exaggerated conviction to Madam Shelly—who was now fully amused, and looking at me with her head slightly cocked, and her eyes twinkling.
They’re gray.
******
“Here you go, uh boss. Wave when you need a refill.”
“You obviously work here. Don’t you?”
“Alas, my secret has been revealed,” I replied pompously with a twinkle in my eye. And then I put my hand on my stomach in a bad imitation of an overly pompous Napoleon.
“I’m merely a humble soldier charged with protecting America from all her enemies. Particularly foreign, of course. How about you?”
“A doctor. General medicine. An internist. Really just a GP. Uh, general practitioner.”
“I’ve always been fascinated by general practitioners and I need to investigate you in case you’re a threat to the embassy and its staff. This being France, it’s always best to talk over a meal. Eating and drinking causes everyone to let their guard down, you know. So to speed up my investigation, I suggest we talk while having an excellent Parisian dinner instead of choking down the embassy’s inevitable overcooked chicken?”
