The Colonels, page 27
part #4 of Brotherhood of War Series
“I would guess, sir,” Lowell said, “that the general has made the same mistake I have.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The general has flown with me in a Queenaire,” Lowell said. “And I would hazard the guess that he presumes that if I could fly a Queenaire, I can fly this thing.”
“May I ask where you have flown the general?”
“From here to South Dakota, Colonel, and back. We went out there to shoot pheasant.”
The colonel looked at him.
“Well, Major, since the general has arranged for me to see if you’re qualified to fly the L-23F, I think we should do just that.”
“May I proceed with the preflight?”
“I always give people I’m checking one mistake, Major,” the colonel said. “Here’s yours: Don’t you think it would be a good idea to file a flight plan, first?”
You chickenshit sonofabitch!
“My mistake, sir. I mistakenly presumed the colonel would have filed a local flight plan, sir. I regret my mistake.”
(Three)
Laird Army Airfield
Fort Rucker, Alabama
0533 Hours, 24 January 1959
“Laird clears Army 4177 for takeoff on three-eight for VFR direct Birmingham. The time is four zero past the hour. The altimeter is two niner niner eight. The winds are five miles per hour, gusting to fifteen, from the north. Contact Birmingham local control on 127.27.”
“Seven Seven rolling,” Lowell said to the microphone as the L-23F moved off the threshold and onto runway three eight.
“Have a pleasant flight, General,” the tower operator said.
“Thank you,” Jiggs said, picking up a microphone.
Jiggs waited until Lowell was on a course for Birmingham—and had contacted Atlanta area and been given an instrument flight rules clearance from Birmingham to Godman Field at Fort Knox—before he said: “Of course, I’m pretty new at this, but for an amateur, you seemed to do that rather smoothly for someone only marginally qualified to pilot this aircraft.”
“Is that what the sonofabitch said?” Lowell asked.
“That’s what he said, and when I told him that I thought I’d take my chances, I’m sure I left him convinced that I was prepared to make literally any sacrifice for the Armor Protective Association.”
Lowell chuckled.
“What are the differences between this plane and the one you used to fly?”
“Aside from the military frequency radios, none that I can find.”
“In other words, you really feel that you can safely fly me to Fort Knox?”
“Yes, General, I have that hope.”
Jiggs chuckled again.
“Why did you file the IFR after you were airborne?”
“Because with all the training going on at Rucker—people flying from nowhere to nowhere for the practice—Atlanta makes the army wait until they clear people who are really going somewhere. You’ll notice there was no wait when I told them we were going to Kentucky.”
“And there would have been otherwise?”
“If we had asked to go round-robin to Savannah, there would have.”
“You’re devious, Lowell,” Jiggs said, approvingly. “Very devious.”
“It was the leadership I had as a young officer, sir,” Lowell said. “I was forced to serve under an officer, sir, who couldn’t get me comfort rations. When I politely remonstrated with him, he told me to be devious.”
“Did I really use that word?”
“Yes, sir, General, sir, you really did. ‘Be devious, Lowell. Think of something,’ is exactly what you said.”
General Jiggs laughed.
“Well, I paid for that, and dearly,” he said. “I wrote reports on you and your damned comfort rations for years after that.”
“You mean somebody found out?”
“Oh, sure they found out. And the clear implication was that I’d sold the razor blades and soap on the black market.”
“Why didn’t you tell them they were lost to enemy action?”
“That’s the difference between you and me, Craig,” Jiggs said, almost sadly, and no longer jocularly. “I can’t do that sort of thing as easily as you can. I won’t be a hypocrite and say I didn’t know our S-4 was a bit vague about whether some equipment was lost to the enemy—or just lost; but I can’t sign a statement I know isn’t true.”
“So what did you do?”
“I told them the truth, that one of my officers was overzealous, but that the responsibility was mine.”
“You should have given them my name,” Lowell said. “I was on the shit list anyhow.”
“Was on?”
“I believe that combat troops are entitled to whatever their commander can get for them, even if he has to steal it.”
“And that made you a superb combat commander,” Jiggs said. “Beloved by his troops.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“Wasn’t that sarcastic?”
“Not at all.”
“I was neither superb nor beloved,” Lowell said. “Immodesty compels me to admit that I was good, but let’s not go overboard.”
“You were both,” Jiggs insisted.
“But?” Lowell asked.
He suddenly realized what was happening. He was being given a father-to-son—or, perhaps more accurately, a Dutch uncle—talk prior to the announcement—or even prior to his figuring it out—that he was to have command of the 3087th Aviation Company (Tank Destroyer) (Provisional). He hadn’t even had to wait for the appropriate moment to ask for it.
He thought that was a very nice thing, indeed, for Paul Jiggs to do. Unnecessary, but nice. Lowell didn’t have to be told that this command was his last chance, that if he fucked this up, he might as well get out of the army. If he fucked this up he just might—some distance down the pike—get a silver leaf. But that would do him about as much good as a gold watch and social security, because that promotion would be the kiss good-bye before his forced retirement. He needed that silver leaf, but he needed it pretty damn soon. His time was running out.
But if he handled this command right, he would get the silver leaf, and soon, and he would be back in the competition for promotion: first for an eagle and ultimately for the stars of a general officer. He had every intention of commanding the 3087th Aviation Company (Tank Destroyer) (Provisional) not only to the best of his ability, but with one eye on what was expected of him as a responsible field-grade officer.
It was less a question of his having been forgiven than of his actual qualifications. He had been a tank commander of distinction. There was no question about that. He had a Distinguished Service Cross (the second highest decoration for valor), a Distinguished Service Medal, a Silver Star, and a chapter in the textbooks. “Task Force Lowell,” named after its youthful commander, was cited as the “classic example” of the proper use of an armored force in the breakthrough and exploitation.
And with Ed Greer in his grave and Mac MacMillan running around in the boondocks of Fort Bragg in a silly green hat, he was the expert on this newest tool of war, the tank-killing, rocket-armed chopper. If there was a God of War, ol’ Mars had decided to annoint him.
In his mind, Lowell went one step further. He had been admired by his troops. He had never asked them to do anything that wasn’t necessary, and they knew it. And the result had been that when he asked them to do something, they’d given it one hell of a try.
He had not commanded troops since Korea. It was going to be just fine to be “the Old Man” again.
“But nothing, Craig,” General Jiggs said. “You were one hell of a commander.”
(Four)
“Godman, Army 4177,” Lowell said to the microphone.
“4177, Godman.”
“Godman, Army 4177, L-23F, five minutes out, due south. Request approach and landing.”
“4177, have you a Code Eight aboard?”
Lowell looked at Jiggs. Code Eight made reference to the fact that a major general was in paygrade 0-8.
“No honors,” Jiggs said.
That didn’t surprise Lowell. Jiggs rarely took advantage of the privileges which he was entitled to as a general officer. He stood in line in the officers’ club cafeteria at lunch. It was to be expected that he would not wish the airfield commander to drop whatever he was doing to jump in a jeep and rush out and salute him when he landed in an airplane.
“Godman, affirmative on the Code Eight. No honors, I say again, no honors, are desired. Ground transport will be required.”
“Godman clears Army 4177 for landing as number one on one eight. The winds are negligible, the altimeter is two niner niner seven. Report on final.”
“Understand number one on one eight,” Lowell said, as he dropped the nose of the airplane.
He saw U.S. Highway 31W, leading to Elizabethtown, off his left wing; and he made his approach over the main post.
“4177 over the outer marker,” he reported, and then a moment later, “4177 turning on final.”
“4177, hold on the runway for a Follow-Me,” Godman tower ordered.
“Roger, Godman,” Lowell said, as he lined up with the runway. The landing, he thought somewhat smugly, was a greaser. Just a faint chirp from the tires, no bump. As he reversed the propellors, he saw a jeep painted in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern, with an enormous checked flag flapping in the wind. It was racing the Follow-Me down the taxiway parallel to the runway.
The airplane slowed. He retarded the throttles.
“Well, General, sir,” he said, “despite your marginally competent pilot, you’ll probably see your wife again.”
Jiggs laughed.
He stopped the airplane on the runway, and then turned it around. The Follow-Me drove onto the runway, turned around, and then started down the runway. Lowell opened the throttles enough to follow it.
“Oh, Jesus!” General Jiggs said, pointing out the windshield.
Beyond the Base Operations buildings and the hangars beside it, on an expanse of grass, was a company of troops, a half dozen M48 tanks, a band, and a color guard.
“One would surmise,” Lowell said dryly, “that the general’s desire for no honors is being gloriously ignored.”
“I shouldn’t have told him I was coming,” Jiggs said.
“If you’ve got it,” Lowell said, “flaunt it.”
“Go to hell, Craig,” General Jiggs said.
The Follow-Me led them off the runway onto a taxiway, and then toward the troops and the tanks. Two ground handlers in white coveralls ran in front of the aircraft and with snappy signals showed where it was to be stopped. Finally, with their signal wands crossed at their necks, they ordered Lowell to kill the engines.
Lowell turned in his seat and pushed open the curtain separating the cockpit from the cabin.
“Davis,” he called to Jiggs’s aide-de-camp, “give the general a minute to pull up his tie before you open the door.”
Jiggs got out of the copilot’s seat, buttoned his tunic, and tugged at the skirt.
He pushed the curtain aside.
“And now we’ll wait for Major Lowell to pull up his tie, Davis. I wouldn’t dream of depriving Major Lowell of the indescribable pleasure of participating in this military panoply.”
Lieutenant Davis went down the steps of the fold-down door first. He saluted the five officers standing on the ground, a major general, a brigadier general, a colonel, and two aides-de-camp, and then he stood at attention as General Jiggs climbed off the airplane. Salutes were exchanged.
“Welcome to Fort Knox, General,” Major General David Henderson said.
“How good of you to meet me, General,” Major General Jiggs replied. They shook hands.
Lowell got off the airplane.
The brigadier general and the colonel shook hands with Jiggs, calling him by name.
The aides introduced each other.
Lowell stood by the plane door, hoping he would be ignored.
“Dave, this is Major Lowell,” Jiggs said.
General Henderson looked at Lowell, his eyes dropping to the armored insignia on Lowell’s lapels, and above his breast pocket the pilot’s wings, and above them the miniature Expert Combat Infantry Badge with a star signifying the second award.
“Another good tanker gone wrong, I see, Major,” General Henderson said, offering his hand. “But I’m pleased to see that General Jiggs at least has the good sense to have himself flown around by a tanker.”
“How do you do, sir?” Lowell said politely.
“Actually, Dave,” General Jiggs said, “Major Lowell is the rocket-armed chopper expert.”
“Well, then, Major,” General Henderson said, “you’re doubly welcome.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lowell said. The brigadier general and the colonel offered their hands.
“Now we’ll officially welcome you, General, to Fort Knox,” General Henderson said.
“You didn’t have to do this, Dave,” Jiggs said. “I never thought I was George Patton.”
“I wouldn’t have missed this opportunity for the world,” General Henderson said. “Who would ever have thought, so to speak, when I first laid eyes on you, then a skinny, freckle-faced callow youth, that one day I would be in a position to render to you the honors of a general officer?”
“You were a prick in Beast Barracks, Dave,” Jiggs said, tempering that remark only slightly with a smile. “You’ve grown more sophisticated, is all.”
General Henderson smiled warmly and a bit stiffly. He nodded his head.
The band played ruffles and flourishes. The tank cannon fired the salute prescribed by regulations for a major general. Then the band played the national anthem.
“Would the general do me the honor of trooping the line?” General Henderson asked.
Jiggs nodded.
Trailed by their aides, the general officers marched over to the company of troops. While the troops executed open ranks, they trooped the line. After they had finished and Jiggs had offered the company commander the ritual compliments on his command, the command “March Past” was given, the band struck up “For in Her Hair She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,” a “traditional cavalry air,” and the company of troops began to march past.
They were followed by the six tanks and finally by the band.
“That was very impressive, Dave,” Jiggs said. “Unnecessary, but first class, and I thank you.”
“My pleasure, Paul,” General Henderson said. He looked at his watch. “And right on schedule, too. We’ve time for everything.”
“What’s everything?” Jiggs asked. “I came over here to talk to you…”
“‘Everything’ begins with a quick trip to the museum. Just a short stop. There’s something there I think you’ll be interested in. And then we’re going to have lunch at my quarters. There’s someone I want you to meet. This afternoon we can have our talk. I’ve got the whole afternoon set aside for that. And tonight, I’ve laid on a dining-in at the main club. I thought it would give you a good opportunity to make your aviation pitch to my officers.”
“Major Lowell would be better at that than me.”
“They’ll pay more attention to you,” General Henderson said. “You are the only man who’s commanded an armored unit larger than a battalion in combat since War II.”
“Am I?” Jiggs said, embarrassed.
“Yes, you are, and you know it. That’s the point. And they know it.” He looked at Lowell. “You know that about the general, don’t you, Major?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Lowell said, innocently. “General Jiggs has been kind enough to relate many of his exploits in Korea.”
Jiggs gave him a withering look.
“And wouldn’t you agree that tankers would rather hear from a tank force commander about aviation than from an aviator?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Lowell said, enjoying himself heartily.
“That was a bit insulting to Major Lowell, don’t you think, Dave?” Jiggs snapped. “You’ll notice he’s wearing a CIB above his wings.”
“It certainly wasn’t intended to be insulting,” Henderson said. Sensing that Jiggs for some reason was genuinely annoyed, he changed the subject: “We’re going to put Major Lowell and your aide up in the VIP guest quarters. You’ll stay with Beth and me, of course. Are you familiar with Knox, Major? Can you find your way from the guest quarters to the main club tonight?”
“If it’s still across the street, yes, sir,” Lowell said.
“Major, would you like to ride along with General Jiggs and me to the museum? You would probably find it interesting.”
It was, Lowell saw, a waving of the peace branch. Jiggs decided to let the subject drop. He nodded his head just perceptibly.
“If I wouldn’t be in the way, sir,” Lowell said.
A line of olive-drab staff cars rolled up. General Henderson’s aide opened both doors of the first one. Jiggs and Henderson got in the back, and Lowell in the front.
“Take General Jiggs’s aide to the VIP quarters, show him around, and then bring him to mine,” Henderson ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the aide said and saluted, and the car drove off.
“We have great plans for the museum,” General Henderson said. “We’re going to call it ‘The Patton Museum,’ for one thing. And down the road, we’re going to get a new building. We’ve already got his Cadillac and his jeep, and I finally got authority for a full-time curator.”
“It’s a good idea,” Jiggs said. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“We had a hell of a fight getting tanks away from ordnance,” Henderson said. “From their museum, I mean. E. Z. Black helped us. At least we’re getting their duplicates, and we’ve got some they don’t have.”
The car moved slowly from Godman Field around the outskirts of the main post. They came to a frame building in the row of tank barns at the foot of the hill on which the barracks of Student Officer Company were located. Lowell could see the mess hall where he had eaten as a student.
A lieutenant colonel and a master sergeant were standing on the stairs before a tank barn labeled “The Armored Museum.” When they saw the staff car approaching, they walked to the edge of the street.
The sergeant-driver of the car jumped out, ran around the rear, and opened the curbside door.
