Soldiers and Marines Saga, page 29
It all happened early on, when I first arrived in the village. After Dien Bien Phu. Le Monde, a French newspaper, published a picture of me receiving a couple of medals for being at Dien Bien Phu, and saving Orsini. I was wearing a French uniform, to maintain the fiction I was a French officer, and the paper identified me as Major Christopher of the Foreign Legion.
Someone remembered seeing it, I think Monsieur Tolen, the Riems realtor who sold me the house, and within hours everyone in the district knew I was a decorated legion officer who had fought at Dien Bien Phu.
I knew nothing of this until everyone began addressing me as Monsieur le Major about a month after I bought the house. Dorothy heard about it when she made a trip to the village store to buy some coffee and paper napkins. She was visibly surprised when she was addressed, even though we were only engaged at the time, as “Madam le Major.”
“Oh oui, Madam, we all know who he is,” Madame DuPleis said as she pulled the paper out from under the counter, and showed it to Dorothy. I had some explaining to do.
“Yes, my dear. That’s me. It seems I will always be Major Christopher here in the village even though that is not my rank in the American army and never has been.” And I explained about my short stint in the Legion, and the Legion’s policy of identifying its men only by their first names.
Other than the fact that she was brought to tears reading the article, and my deliberately mellow description of the experience, she still did not know my rank.
And it really moved me that she was so moved.
******
We talked as we drove back home that evening from the dinner with her drunk father and seriously furious mother.
“Are you really willing to marry me even though I’m just an old soldier with no prospects of promotion and only a soldier’s pay?”
“Oh yes. Of course I am.”
“Well, I have a bit of a confession to make.”
She looked at me, and a hint of worry crossed her face.
“I am in the army, but I’m not exactly a sergeant, and never have been.”
“I don’t care what you are. We can make it. I can always get a job. Docs make enough money.”
“Well, I love you more than ever for saying that, but that’s not what I mean. Hon, I never said I was a sergeant. Your mother and father just assumed I was because I took your coat at the coat check counter, served time in the Legion, and said I’d never been a lieutenant.”
Her eyes got big, and worried. “I don’t understand.”
“Hon, I never once lied to you. I do love you, and I am in the army. And it’s true I never was a lieutenant. I was a private, got a battlefield commission straight to captain, and then to lieutenant colonel. Honey, I’m a brigadier general, and I’ve got an important job to do, that I can never tell you about.”
I pulled over to the side of the road, and put my arms around her. “Will you forgive me?”
******
Our wedding came off without a hitch. And it sure turned out to be bigger than I would have ever thought possible. I invited some old army buddies from over the years and, to my surprise, they all came, even General Speidel, impressive with his iron cross, and wearing an eye monocle instead of his regular glasses.
We all laughed uproariously when Speidel drolly told everyone he loves old movies and thought a monocle is what Americans expect German officers to wear, and he didn’t want to disappoint anyone.
And I even got to wear a dress uniform, with all my medals, for the first time in many years. Dorothy, and the senator, had a lot of friends, and they all came too. The church was packed.
We held off her mother’s finding out about me for as long as possible. The senator had a great sense of humor; he had some fake invitations designed for her to approve.
Someone on the senator’s staff had the real ones printed, and he brought them home so his wife could mail them out. “The invitations are here,” he said, as he put the box down on the kitchen counter.
According to him, it was an incredulous “but, but, but,” like an outboard motor when she pulled one out, and began to read it.
Then she got mad as hell, and threw a big handful of paper napkins at him as he stood there grinning at her. And then she realized what we’d done, and laughed as hard as she had ever laughed in her life. At least that’s the story we heard.
Chapter Twelve
America’s involvement in the Vietnam War was winding down, and the country was disillusioned with the military, politicians, and the world in general; and rightly so. The politicians really screwed up by getting us into the war, and then made things much worse by trying to run it from Washington and keeping us there so they wouldn’t have to “lose face” by admitting they had made a mistake.
But that’s not to say Westmoreland would have run it any better if they’d left him alone. It probably would have been even worse, from all I could see.
In any event, the United States’ military was now demoralized, and underfunded, in an effort to provide a “peace dividend,” whatever the hell that is, and weaker in comparison to the Soviets and the Warsaw Pact armies, than ever before.
And all we could do at the detachment is continue to get as ready as possible to fill NATO’s growing gaps if the Soviets, and their Warsaw Pact allies, attacked.
On the other hand, there was also some good news. Ben Talley’s aide from years ago in Korea, Dick Spelling, the silent, skinny colonel who showed up with Ben Talley, and ran the crossroads triage camp years ago in Korea, has moved up higher over the years. He now had three stars and had recently been appointed Deputy Army Chief of Staff.
According to Charlie, Spelling is one heck of a smart guy, and is already being touted as a possible Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, or even Defense Secretary, if he gets out, and spends a couple of years as a civilian.
As soon as Spelling got the appointment as Deputy Chief, Talley and Evans told him about the detachment, and its implications.
Spelling immediately had me fly over to give him a personal briefing. It was a gray morning at Andrews when I arrived. A brown military sedan was waiting to take me to the Pentagon.
To the surprise of the General’s staff, our meeting lasted almost all day, and an older man in civilian clothes, so obviously a retired senior officer, that he could have had a sign on his back, was also in attendance. I spent the day describing what we could do immediately, and in three month segments into the future as we brought more and more of our “African projects” into full readiness.
Dick and Ben laughed when they heard I’d been publishing misleading articles in Red Banner, the Soviet’s military newspaper, to set the Soviets up to misuse their weapons. I’d done it on my own so General Talley wouldn’t hear about it. I never told him because I was afraid he might have ordered me to stop.
An old Sandhurst buddy in British intelligence, I explained to them without giving Boots name, set it up. Boots didn’t know why I mentioned the idea to him, as we reminisced in his local pub, but he agreed it sounded like a super idea, and told me he’d be happy to implement the operation, and take credit for it, if I’d write the articles and the orders.
It seems, I explained to Generals Spelling and Talley, that the Soviet military and political leadership often write essays and columns, under false names, to announce important policies and changes. Probably, I told them, to test the reactions to them before they put them forward officially. That’s what Boots said.
Boots said getting the articles translated, and published, would be easy, and it was. Apparently, Soviet bureaucrats are easily bribed.
The stuff I wrote was being published under the name of Cicero, the Roman who ended every speech with “Carthage must be destroyed.”
One of my favorites, I told my two old friends, was the article I wrote last year about the use of hand-held anti-aircraft SAM missiles. It gave the detailed statistical results of a “scientific” test which purported to show that most low-ranking Russian troops are so anxious to protect themselves, and the motherland, that they fire at just about every plane they see in the second or two that it flashes over them.
This was important for unit commanders to know, I had written, because the Soviet Union will, of course, have many friendly planes over their troops in the event of war.
The Brits apparently have a way, or a person, to send normal-sounding messages to Soviet military commanders, and their political commissars. In this case, I explained to Spelling, if there’s a war, the Brits will send a general order to all the Soviet unit commanders, an order I also wrote. It cites the article, and warns of dire consequences if one of their troops shoots down a Soviet plane.
The order, quite reasonably under the circumstances, specifies that only captains and above, with specialized training, are to be allowed to fire hand-held missiles at planes. If the Russian unit commanders accept the order as real, most of the Soviet handheld SAM missiles will not be used during the early days of a war. The fact that few, if any, Soviet officers had the required training was nowhere mentioned.
I also described three or four of the other misdirections I had underway to further screw them up. Each involved an article planted in Red Banner that sounded professional and reasonable, and a subsequent reasonable sounding order based on it that will really hurt them, if it is implemented. Spelling laughed when he heard them, and liked them all.
Spelling should laugh and be pleased. It’s a no-lose deal, since the articles give the Russians bad information, and the orders, based on them, won’t go out unless there is a war.
“Do everything you can, Guns. It looks more and more like we’ll need everything you and your guys can do, and then some. And let me know if you need more money, people, or help with the Brits.”
I nodded my head in agreement, and promised to continue.
“Our problem,” the scholarly Spelling said, “is fundamental. The Russian economy is in a state of total disrepair, and their elderly leadership is increasingly under pressure to start a war to get their people behind them again. They would rather start a war than give up power to the young guys coming up in the party."
"That’s why President Reagan’s call for them to tear down the Berlin Wall, is pushing them to the brink. They see it as a call for a revolution within the communist party, and they think their younger guys are listening.”
Then Dick gave us a brief description of the sad state of the Russian economy, and its importance to the decision making of the Russian leadership.
As I listened, I realized Spelling was very much like Seidel, very smart, much more worldly, and more broadly educated, than most of the rest of us.
“Besides all that,” Dick concluded dryly, “they think they’ll win if there is a war.”
******
My satisfaction, with the reception I received in Washington, turned to ashes when I get back to the Detachment three days later. Charlie Caine had been in Washington at the same time, and returned a day earlier than I did. He had news. Bad news.
“Do you know a major general named Pettyjohn, Guns?”
“Pettyjohn? I had a battalion commander for a couple of weeks in Korea with that name.”
“What was he like?”
“Absolutely useless. He was really upset when I got promoted out from under him. Why do you ask?”
“Well, he sure doesn’t like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s really after your ass.”
“Jeez. Really? Why?”
“Apparently one of the companies supplying gear for our Swimmers sent an invoice last year, and it ended up in his office. He’s the Deputy Director for Army Procurement, and it somehow got to his desk because no one could find the account number referenced in the invoice.”
“Well jeez Charlie, so what?”
“Before it got to Pettyjohn, someone in his office called the vender of the scuba gear, Marshak Manufacturing in South Bend, for information. They were given your name, and my name, as the signatories on the order. When they called to inquire, Marshak realized it had sent the invoice to the wrong office, and told them to ignore it.”
“That should have been the end of it, but Pettyjohn apparently saw your name, and decided to screw you. He wrote up what’s known as a confidential investigation warning, and sent it over to the Office of Army Personnel, my old office, to be inserted in your personnel jacket. What it says is that the subject officer, you, since it’s in your personnel jacket, is being investigated for financial improprieties. It also suggests that your academic credentials are suspect.”
Then Charlie grinned.
“Normally such a report would absolutely kill an officer’s career, and end any prospect of promotion. Except in your case, of course, it won’t because you don’t have any prospects of promotion.”
Then Charlie grinned even more, as he took a sip of coffee, and chuckled to himself.
“But your friend Pettyjohn made a couple of really big mistakes. His big one was including a copy of the invoice with our names on it, as the contracting officers. An old friend of mine, a dear lady from my church, was the civilian secretary who typed up the report. She tracked me down, and called me. That’s why I rushed off to Washington last week, right after you did.”
“Why that mealy-mouthed sonofabitch,” I said. I’m starting to get pissed, and worried.
“Can he really do that?” And why is Charlie smiling?
“Yeah, he can do that, and he was sneaky about it too. He made sure it would appear to come from someone else, and didn’t have his name on it. He sent it over to Personnel by a courier envelope, as if it came from one of the colonels in his office.”
“Damn Charlie, what should I do?”
“Don’t worry about it, Guns. I handled it.” By then Charlie was grinning fit to burst.
“Charlie, what did you do?”
Even I was beginning to grin. I couldn’t help it, but Charlie’s obvious pleasure was contagious.
“You remember, I used to run the Personnel Office? Well, I had someone I know, another dear friend, pull the material from your personnel jacket by pointing out to her that the invoice was for a black project, and should be instantly shredded. What was left in your jacket was the confidential report form for the subject officer, with no one’s name on it.”
“Then I waited a couple of days, visited someone else in the office, another very dear friend, suggested that a mistake had been made, and someone had put the confidential notice in someone else’s personnel jacket, yours, that was supposed to be Pettyjohn’s personnel jacket.”
“You mean..?”
“Yeah, she moved it. The next time Pettyjohn comes up for retention, or promotion, he’s going to find that he shot himself in both feet by filing that false report.
Chapter Thirteen
The last American troops pulled out of South Vietnam a couple of months ago, and the well-to-do Vietnamese, and senior officers, pulled out with them, at least those who could get away. In any event, for the first time in many years, the Vietnamese people are on their own, without foreigners telling them what to do.
That, of course, means there will be fighting over who will run the country, the old crooks or the new crooks. Other than that, the world is, more or less, at peace.
******
Everything changed on October 6th. Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the year for Jews, and that’s when the Egyptians, and Syrians, launched a surprise invasion of Israel. Even Jordan, despite its King making a secret, and futile, visit to Israel to warn the Israeli prime minister that a war was coming, finally joined the war. The king did so when he was misled by the Egyptians, after a few days of war, into thinking the Egyptians were winning.
He had to do it, the King was led to believe, because the Egyptian soon-to-be-victors would surely overthrow him if he didn’t.
It didn’t make much difference. The Israelis won again. That explained the message that was waiting for me when I got to the detachment on a brisk fall morning in early November. It asked me to call Colonel Peterson in the Chief of Staff’s office.
“The Chief of Staff would like you to join a team of officers going to Israel. We want to learn what really happened during the Yom Kippur war, and why.”
I see Spelling’s hand in this, and must remember to thank him the next time we talk.
******
Israeli was in shock, despite its victory. It had suffered thousands of casualties. Relative to its population it was equivalent to the United States' losses in all of World War II. Everyone knew someone who lost a son, brother, or father. The Israelis also lost a lot of armor and planes. The United States was running a massive airlift to pour in replacement equipment and munitions.
There were almost a dozen of us in the observation team. And, as is traditional in Israel, we were each assigned to an English-speaking liaison officer. Mine was an army major, Major Yoram Makow. Yoram was not a native born Israeli. His father had moved his family from California to Israel when he was seven.
“What hurt us most,” Yoram said, “were the Russian anti-tank and surface-to-air missiles. It took a while to figure them out, and adjust our tactics. A lot of good people were killed, and wounded, before we did.”
This is exactly what I want to know.
“How so?” I asked.
“I really don’t know much about the way planes should respond to SAM missiles,” he said. “As I understand it, and I’m not sure I do, you don’t want your pilots to ever to have to fly though an umbrella of SAM batteries, such as might be covering a massive number of troops and vehicles.
“What to do, it seems, at least what I was told by a neighbor, who is a pilot, is to concentrate on picking off those outside the SAM umbrella. And come in fast if you do have to attack ground targets, so they can’t see you except for a few seconds, perhaps by coming behind hills or sand dunes until you suddenly show up, and hit them.
“Anti-tank missiles, now that’s something I know a lot about,” Yoram said with a resigned sigh. “I lost my tank, and two of my crew, to one of the wire-guided Russian Saggers. It turns out they have a great weakness, something we didn’t know until after it was too late for me and my tank - they are very slow, and require an operator with a steady hand, a very steady hand, to guide them all the way in to a hit.
