The Colonels, page 29
part #4 of Brotherhood of War Series
“We got very close,” Lowell said.
“You ever see her afterward?”
“I saw her once when I came home,” Lowell said. “The magic, as they say, was gone.” After a moment, he added: “And there’s somebody else I haven’t seen lately—my son.”
“How is he?”
“He’s twelve, that’s how he is. A regular little kraut. I want to go see him, Paul.”
“Can you spare the time?”
“I can spare the time, but I’m not sure Bill Roberts will think I can.”
Jiggs fell silent a moment.
“I’ll speak to him,” he said. “If you feel you can take the time, you can take the time.”
“I’m going to send Bill Franklin over there to teach the pilots, and Dutch Cramer to talk to their ordnance people, and one of my sergeants to talk to their airframe mechanics. It’ll be three weeks before we get the hardware, and another week, ten days, before they’ll be able to get it installed. I’m really not needed at the Board. It works. Ed Greer and Mac saw to that. Now is a good time to go.”
“I was sure you had thought it through,” Jiggs said. “I’ll call Bill in the morning, and tell him I think it’s a good idea you take some leave.”
“Bottle fatigue,” Lowell said, chuckling.
SFC Joe McInerney was waiting with Jiggs’s staff car when Lowell parked the L-23F in front of Base Operations at Laird Army Airfield.
“Joe will run you home, Craig,” Jiggs said. “After he drops us off.”
“Thank you,” Lowell said. “I didn’t think about getting home.”
“I hope that isn’t a pointed remark,” Jiggs said. “I had hoped that I had explained things to your understanding, if not your satisfaction.”
“No, sir,” Lowell quickly explained. “I sold my car to Jannier. I mean, he’s got it, and I need a ride.”
Jiggs looked at his face and saw that was the truth.
“OK,” he said.
They dropped Lieutenant Davis at his quarters, and then drove further in to the officers’ housing area to Quarters No. 1.
“Not very fancy, by comparison, is it?” Jiggs said, as they started up the driveway.
“I wondered if you noticed,” Lowell said.
“I did, but I think I’m more useful here than I would be at Knox,” Jiggs said, as he opened the door. “But it would be nice, Craig, wouldn’t it, if we were both at Knox?”
“How about Quarters 3 at McNair? You as Vice Chief, and me, say, as Director of Army Aviation?” His voice was light, joking.
“I wouldn’t want to be E. Z. Black right now,” Jiggs said. “And I don’t think you’d want to be Bob Bellmon.” He paused a moment, then said, “Good night, Craig,” and shut the door.
There were lights on at 227 Melody Lane, and the Eldorado was in the carport, but there was no one in the kitchen or living room when Lowell walked in through the unlocked door. Jannier, Lowell decided, was probably visiting Melody. He went back to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, looking for a beer. He saw there was Tuborg, and thought it was pleasant living with a Frenchman who took his food and booze seriously.
He went into the living room with the beer and sat down in one of their new armchairs.
Jean-Philippe Jannier came into the living room. Somehow the short silk robe he was wearing seemed to shout that he was naked beneath it. It was a sexy bathrobe; Jean-Philippe Jannier was a robustly sexual male.
“Welcome home,” Jannier said. “Are congratulations in order?”
“Oh, was I wrong about that!” Lowell said. “Not only did I not get the company, but I was politely given to understand that now that I have made my little contribution to the rocket-armed helicopter, the best and the brightest would take it from here.”
“And you are disappointed?”
“Very, very disappointed, my friend,” Lowell confessed. Then, so as not to appear a whiner, he changed the subject.
“How did you do with your first check ride?”
Jannier shrugged his shoulders. It could have meant anything.
“I’m going to go see my son,” Lowell said.
“Good,” Jannier said. “I envy you a son. A man is not complete without a son.”
It was, Lowell thought, an odd remark.
“You have a message,” Jannier said. “Your secretary called.”
Jesus, I’d forgotten all about her!
“What did she say?”
“Only that you call her at home,” Jannier said. “The number is there.”
He pointed to a notepad beside the telephone at Lowell’s side. There was nothing Lowell could do but dial the number.
“Hello?”
“Major Lowell, Jane,” he said.
“Is someone with you?” Jane Cassidy asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Colonel Roberts’s secretary called. You are to be in his office at 0800. She said you are to wear a good uniform.”
That was an odd message. It carried with it a suggestion that otherwise he might appear in a shabby or soiled uniform. Lowell was one of those people who looked elegant in a baggy cotton flight suit. His “regular” uniforms were tailored by Brooks Brothers in New York; his “good” uniforms, and his shirts, shoes, and boots, came from London.
“With your ribbons,” Jane added.
“I wonder what the hell that’s about?” Lowell asked.
“I don’t know,” Jane said. And then: “Are you free?”
“Yes.”
“Can you meet me at the Piggly-Wiggly parking lot in Enterprise in thirty minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she said, and hung up.
Lowell turned to Jannier and told him that he had to go out to the post.
And then Melody Dutton Greer came into the living room. She was dressed in a skirt and a sweater, and her hair was combed, but there was no makeup on her face, and Lowell had seen enough women fresh from bed to know that she had not been in Jean-Philippe Jannier’s bedroom to examine the new furniture.
“We didn’t think you were coming back tonight,” she said.
“Obviously,” Lowell said, without thinking.
Melody flushed, but she did not avert her eyes.
“That was thoughtless of me,” Lowell said. “I’m sorry.”
“We will be married,” Jannier said.
“You think I’m a whore,” Melody said.
“You don’t know what I think,” Lowell said.
He was not, he realized, either surprised or outraged.
“What do you think?” Jannier said.
“I was thinking I hope you don’t get caught at it,” Lowell said. “It would be very awkward.”
“And you were thinking Ed isn’t dead a month,” Melody said.
“I was thinking that Ed and I are probably the only people who would understand,” Lowell said.
“Merci, mon vieux,” Jean-Philippe Jannier said, emotionally.
“You really want to marry this frog, honey?” Lowell asked.
Melody, tears in her eyes, nodded her head.
“Your father wasn’t exactly fond of Ed,” Lowell said. “Wait till he hears that you’re going to many a frog and go live in wicked Paree.”
Melody, wiping at her eyes with her knuckles, laughed bitterly.
I’m not outraged. I’m jealous. No one has looked at me like she’s looking at him since Ilse.
Lowell mockingly blessed them with a sign of the cross.
“Bless you, my children,” he said. “Go and sin some more.”
“That’s terrible,” Melody said, but she had to giggle.
“I am hungry,” Jannier said.
“I wonder why?” Lowell asked dryly.
“And what we will do,” Jannier went on, “is open a bottle of champagne, and I will make an omelet.”
“So that’s it,” Lowell said. “The mystery explained.” He looked at Melody. “There is absolutely nothing the American female won’t do to get out of the kitchen. Even marry a frog.”
Melody, surprising him, came to him. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.
“Thank you,” she said.
And then she surprised him even more. She put her arms around him, and laid her head on his chest. He put his arm around her, and felt a wave of tenderness for her. Then he bent his head and kissed her hair. He was aware that he was actually on the edge of tears himself.
“I am so happy,” Jannier announced, his voice breaking.
Lowell drank a glass of champagne with them, and then he got in his car and went to meet Jane Cassidy in the Piggly-Wiggly parking lot.
(Two)
Office of the Deputy Commandant for Special Projects
The U.S. Army Special Warfare School
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
0745 Hours, 26 January 1959
Lieutenant Colonel Rudolph G. MacMillan was aware that he had a problem. Early the previous afternoon, Colonel Paul Hanrahan had given him his first real assignment. He was to develop a plan for the recruitment of 1,000 officers and men, in a ratio of roughly one officer to six men.
The officers were to be lieutenants and captains, although specially qualified majors might be considered. The noncoms were to be in the top three enlisted grades, although specially qualified enlisted men in lower grades might also be considered.
They were to have unblemished records, although in the case of specially qualified enlisted men, this might be waived—so long as the blemish was not enough to prevent the issuance of a Secret or Top Secret security clearance.
At least seventy-five percent of those recruited were to be qualified parachutists. Others had to be willing to volunteer for parachute training, and thus they had to be able to pass a physical examination certifying they were fit for parachute jumping.
At least eighty percent of those recruited had to be able to read and write a foreign language. And of that group, a further eighty percent had to be able to speak, read, and write the Spanish language. At least fifty percent of the officers had to be of “combat arms”—that is infantry, armor, or artillery. At least twenty-five percent had to be from the signal corps. At least five percent had to be physicians.
Hanrahan had told him he was not to be concerned with the objections of commanding officers. The Assistant Chief of Staff, Personnel, had been directed to effect the transfers of people Hanrahan wanted. The only problem was to find them.
There were other qualifications and restrictions. MacMillan had worked late into the night trying to draft a recruiting plan. All he had managed to do, so far, was the basic arithmetic. One thousand officers and men in a 6-to-1 ratio meant 167 officers and 833 men. Eight hundred, total, had to speak a foreign language, and of that 800, 640 had to speak Spanish. He needed eight and a half doctors, six and one quarter of whom had to be qualified parachutists, and six and one half of whom had to speak Spanish.
He had, in other words, a lined tablet page and a half full of meaningless figures, and absolutely no idea how to proceed. He was about to make an ass of himself in front of Hanrahan, which would make it clear that he was a fucking dumbbell who had to be led around by the hand.
There was a knock at his door.
“Come in!”
It was Second Lieutenant Thomas J. Ellis, of the 82nd Airborne Division, and right now the last thing MacMillan needed was a second john wet behind the ears.
“What the hell do you want?” he snapped, and was immediately sorry.
Ellis marched into the office and saluted.
“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I wanted to give you this.”
Ellis laid four fifty dollar bills on MacMillan’s desk, and then returned to attention.
“Oh, stand at ease,” Mac said. “Sit down, as a matter of fact. You want some coffee?”
“I don’t want to take up your time, Colonel,” Ellis said.
“Sit,” MacMillan said, pointing. Then he stood up and turned to his coffee maker and poured some coffee in mugs. “How do you take it?”
“Black, please, sir.”
MacMillan handed him the mug.
“Got a partial pay, did you? You got enough left until payday? This one and the next one?”
“It could be considered a partial pay, sir,” Ellis said.
“If I didn’t know better, I would guess you were playing poker again, Lieutenant,” MacMillan said.
“No comment, sir,” Ellis said, with a smile.
“Well, if you’re sure you’ve got enough to carry you?”
“More than enough, sir,” Ellis said. “I even made the down payment on a car. It’s not much, but it’s better than walking.”
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” MacMillan said. “I’ve got problems.”
“You don’t have to waste time with me, sir, to be polite,” Ellis said, starting to get to his feet.
“Sit,” MacMillan ordered again.
“Yes, sir.”
MacMillan looked at him and smiled. He looked, in his immaculate uniform, like a recruiting poster. The brand-new shavetail parachutist, hair closely cropped, nothing on his uniform but his wings and his gold bars.
“What do you think of the division?” Mac asked.
“It’s not very interesting,” Ellis said. “Not what I thought it would be.”
“You have probably been assigned as assistant supply officer, reenlistment officer, army welfare officer, and VD control officer, in addition to your other duties?” Mac asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“It’ll pass, in time,” Mac said. “Standard procedure.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, Ellis, how is the division fixed for spics?”
“I don’t understand the question, Colonel,” Ellis said, a little stiffly.
“How many taco eaters? You know what a spic is, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I know what a spic is,” Ellis said.
“I’m in the market for spics,” Mac said. “That’s why I asked.”
“Sir?”
“My perfect spic is a combat arms officer, jump qualified, who reads, writes, and speaks spic like a spic,” Mac said. “I need 167 of them, preferably lieutenants or captains. They have to be volunteers.”
“Because of what’s happening in Cuba, you mean, Colonel?” Ellis asked. “They’re planning to use Green Berets?”
“I didn’t say that,” MacMillan said.
Ellis stood up, came to attention, and a stream of rapid Spanish came out of him.
“What the hell was that?” MacMillan said.
“That was Spanish, sir. What I said was that I hoped the colonel will grant me the honor of permitting me to volunteer.”
“Where the hell did you learn to speak Spanish?” MacMillan asked.
“From my mother, sir. I’m half Puerto Rican. I suppose you could say that makes me fifty percent spic.”
MacMillan’s already ruddy face flushed red.
“Ellis, I didn’t mean to…”
“I’ve heard it before, Colonel,” Ellis said. “If you live in Spanish Harlem and look like an anglo, you learn pretty quick what the anglos think of the spics—and what the spics think of anglos.”
“I didn’t mean to say anything…”
“Sir, I’m dead serious about wanting to volunteer,” Ellis said.
Hanrahan’s voice, distorted but recognizable, came over the intercom: “Mac, how’re you coming with the recruiting plan? Can I have a look at it?”
MacMillan looked at his watch. It was 7:55. Hanrahan had said “in the morning.” He wanted the plan now, and it wasn’t even started.
“I’m interviewing an officer right now, Colonel,” MacMillan said.
“One meeting the specs, or one you dragged off the street?”
“A Spanish-speaking, jump-qualified infantryman, sir.”
“This I’ve got to see,” Hanrahan said. “Bring him in.”
“You’ve got between now and the time we get to the colonel’s office to change your mind, Ellis,” Mac said.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Ellis said.
They marched in side by side, the nearly middle-aged lieutenant colonel—who was the most highly decorated officer on the post—and the teenaged second lieutenant fresh from OCS. They saluted the commandant, and when he had returned it, they stood at attention before his desk. The comparison was not lost on Paul Hanrahan.
“You two look like ‘Before’ and ‘After,’” he said. He offered his hand to Lieutenant Ellis. “My name is Hanrahan, Lieutenant. Sit down and tell me why you’d like to join Special Forces.”
MacMillan was surprised and relieved to hear Ellis’s answers. Ellis told Hanrahan he thought that Special Forces would “be interesting,” and that it would give him an opportunity to learn skills which would be valuable to him later.
“And you like the glamour, too, I suppose?” Hanrahan said.
“I understand the ladies look on Special Forces that way, sir,” Ellis said.
Hanrahan asked him a few questions. He had already made up his mind to take one or two bushy-tailed, virginal shavetails into Special Forces, not for the contribution they could be expected to make, but to see how much training they could absorb in a short period of time. This second lieutenant would serve that purpose. He wondered where MacMillan had found him on such short notice.
He called the sergeant major on the intercom, and asked him to send Master Sergeant Jesus Santana in.
Santana, a swarthy bull of a man, came in a minute or two later.
“Colonel MacMillan tells me this officer is fluent in Spanish, Santana,” Hanrahan said. “I don’t think he’s qualified to judge.”
Santana spoke to Ellis for several minutes, then rendered his judgment.
“He’s perfectly fluent, sir,” he reported. “Actually, he speaks rather Castilian Spanish, as opposed to Puerto Rican or Mexican.”
“We had Spanish nuns in school, sir,” Ellis said.
“When would you like to come over here, Lieutenant?” Hanrahan asked.
“This afternoon, sir,” Ellis replied immediately.
“I’d hoped,” MacMillan said, “to use Lieutenant Ellis as my translator. To see that people really speak Spanish.”
“That makes sense,” Hanrahan said.
In bringing in Ellis, MacMillan was dropping another hot potato in his lap sooner than he had expected. There were going to be howls of rage from the 82nd Airborne, from XVII Airborne Corps, and from other units at Bragg (because they were mostly paratroops, the majority of his new people would have to come from Bragg). He knew the sooner he got through that fight, the better.
