The Colonels, page 9
part #4 of Brotherhood of War Series
At the time Bellmon had read the report, Second Lieutenant Lowell and his German wife (who at the time hadn’t known her husband had a dime) were living in quarters on Fort Knox that Craig had furnished with battered junk from the quartermaster warehouse. The way Lowell handled his wealth in the army was one of the few things about him that Robert Bellmon admired without qualification. There were exceptions (the Aero Commander, for one; his town house in Georgetown for another), but generally Lowell appeared to live as if all the money he had was from his monthly check.
Bellmon really couldn’t put his finger on any but petty reasons that made him dislike Lowell, but he simply did not like him. It was a bone of contention between Bellmon and his wife. Barbara Bellmon loved the handsome young major like a mischievous younger brother.
Jane Cassidy and Florence Ward came back from the ladies’ room, interrupting Bellmon’s chain of thought. And Jane’s expression when she looked at Lowell started another: was it possible that Lowell was already ignoring the “talk” General Paul Jiggs had had with him only two days before, and was off in pursuit of the blond, long-legged Jane Cassidy? Was he that much of a fool?
He decided that he was being the fool. Jane Cassidy was a level-headed woman, happily married to a very nice fellow. She doubtless already knew Duke Lowell’s unsavory reputation with women. There was nothing going on, Bellmon concluded. Lowell had simply taken the women for a ride. Period.
Never. Bellmon thought, as he made his way down the aisle of the Aero Commander to slip into the copilot’s seat, look a gift horse in the mouth.
As soon as they were in the air, and the drone of the engines would keep Colonel Brandon from hearing his voice, Lowell picked up the microphone, threw the switch for the intercom, and raised the question: “Am I permitted to ask, Bob, what you’ve been doing in Washington? Rumors are going around that you have a new job.”
“The rumors are true,” Bellmon said.
“Then would it be presumptuous for the major to ask the general what that job is?”
“No, Craig, it wouldn’t; but keep it under your hat unil official word is out.”
“I never break confidences, General…well, hardly ever,” he chuckled.
“Make this time one of your nevers”—he paused—“Major.” He let that sink in, then added, “I’ll be Director of Army Aviation in DCSOPS.”
“Excellent, Bob! I’m really pleased.”
“Thank you, Craig, so am I.”
“May I also ask the general,” Lowell said, moving to something else he was curious about, “what’s Fatso doing with you?”
“You heard what I said before we took off,” Bellmon replied a little stiffly. “The Chief of Information has ordered Colonel Brandon to run the PIO thing about the rocket-armed choppers for a while.”
“He had to come on New Year’s Eve?”
“Colonel Brandon will be the guest of Combat Developments at the party, and my houseguest; and I am sure everyone will make him feel welcome,” Bellmon said.
“I’m sure everyone will be polite,” Lowell said. “Welcome’s something else. It was his PIO bullshit that got Ed Greer killed.”
“Lieutenant Greer,” Bellmon said, icily, “was killed by a malfunctioning rocket.”
There was a long silence.
“You’re right,” Lowell said, two minutes later. “You’re right, Bob, and I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
“If any of the others are in similar error, Lowell,” General Bellmon said coldly, “it would behoove you to correct them.”
At the last moment he had fought down the temptation (recognizing that it would have been chickenshit) to remind Lowell that majors do not customarily refer to general officers by their first names, no matter how long they have known them.
“Yes, sir,” Lowell said. “But I would suggest the general have a word with Major MacMillan. The major is prone to ignore me.”
“I’ll talk to Mac,” Bellmon said. “And forgive me, Lowell.”
“Sir?”
“I haven’t thanked you for coming to get us. It was nice of you. And important to Barbara. When we get on the ground, I’ll give you a check for gas and maintenance.”
“My pleasure, sir,” Lowell said, smiling. And then, as if he had been reading Bellmon’s mind, he added: “I always try to get on the right side of general officers, General.”
“I’ll give you a check when we’re on the ground,” Bellmon repeated.
(Three)
Ozark, Alabama
1600 Hours, 31 December 1958
The three cars, an Oldsmobile 98, a Buick convertible, and an olive-drab Ford staff car formed a little convoy—the Oldsmobile leading. As they approached the Ozark gate of Fort Rucker, one of the two military policemen on duty spotted the Oldsmobile.
“Charley,” he said, “heads up.”
Both of them stepped out of their little guard shack and assumed the position of “parade rest,” and then together popped to attention and threw a crisp salute as the Oldsmobile passed them.
On the Oldsmobile’s bumper was a plastic sticker. It bore a representation of aviator’s wings, the legend “Ft. Rucker, Ala” and, on a blue field, the numeral “1.” The Oldsmobile was the personal automobile of Major General Paul T. Jiggs, the post commander. General Jiggs, who was in the front passenger seat (Mrs. Jiggs was at the wheel), returned the salute casually and smiled at the MPs. The MPs completed their salute and immediately saluted again, just about as crisply, as the Buick convertible, which carried the numeral “7” on its bumper, passed them. Brigadier General Robert F. Bellmon was at the wheel of his wife’s car.
The staff car was driven by one of the civilian drivers, and its passenger was Master Sergeant P. J. Wallace, whom they recognized. Master Sergeant Wallace was the senior photographer of the Post Signal Detachment, and he took pride at being present whenever something interesting (by which he meant an aircraft crash or a spectacular auto accident) happened. The MPs and Master Sergeant Wallace waved at each other.
“I wonder where they’re going?” one of the MPs said.
“Who gives a fuck?”
“I meant, all together, with a photographer?”
“And I said, ‘Who gives a fuck?’”
The little convoy drove five miles down the two-lane macadam highway (now in the process of being widened to four lanes) and then turned right between two curved brick walls, standing alone. On the walls a sign had been mounted: WOODY DELLS.
They shortly began to pass houses on both sides of the road—new houses. Some of these were occupied, and the others had four-by-eight-foot wooden signs erected on their new, sparse lawns. The brightly painted signs displayed the model name of each house such as “The Colonial,” “The Ranchero,” “The Presidential,” the model’s price, and the information that VA, FHA, and conventional mortgages were available. The bottom line of each sign was identical: “Dutton Realty Corporation. Howard Dutton, Pres.”
The little convoy wove its way through the gently curving streets until it came to Melody Lane. Howard Dutton had named the streets of his subdivision after his friends and the members of his family. The most prestigious street of all looked down onto the lake and the Woody Dells Community Center offering tennis courts and a putting green, as well as a kitchen and a party room available at a nominal cost to Woody Dells residents. That street he had named after his daughter Melody.
When, over his silent but deep objections, Melody had become engaged to Lieutenant Ed Greer, Howard Dutton had a Presidential built for the kids as a wedding present. But after Greer had broken the engagement and jilted Melody, he had quickly sold it—only to have to buy it back at a premium after Melody ran away to Algeria (where Greer was serving as an advisor to the French) and succeeded in getting him to the altar of the English church in Algiers.
The Oldsmobile and the Buick pulled into the driveway of 227 Melody Lane, which had a Cadillac Coupe de Ville and a Volkswagen parked in its double garage. 227 Melody Lane was also a Presidential, the most luxurious of Woody Dell’s offerings. The Presidential provided four bedrooms, three and a half baths, a separate dining room, a living room (which Dutton Realty called “the Great Room”), and a den with a wet bar. The staff car stopped on the street, and Master Sergeant Wallace got out, carrying a press camera. He also had a canvas ditty bag loaded with film packs and flashbulbs hanging from his shoulder. Wallace trotted up the driveway, reaching the house just as the kitchen door was opened by Mrs. Roxy MacMillan.
“Does he know?” Barbara Bellmon asked.
“No,” Roxy giggled. “He hasn’t the foggiest.”
“Who is it?” Mac MacMillan called from inside the house.
“Bob and Barbara,” Roxy called, and giggling again, added, “And some other people.”
“Come on in the den,” MacMillan said, raising his voice. “The Mouse and me are having a beer.”
The five people trailed through the kitchen and into the den. Mac MacMillan, wearing brilliant yellow golf slacks and a striped, knit golf shirt was standing by the wet bar with a can of beer in his hand. Major Sanford T. Felter, in more subdued golf clothing, held a scotch and soda. When he saw Bellmon, he put the drink down on the bar.
When General Jiggs came through, a look of puzzlement came on Mac’s square, ruddy face.
“What the hell?”
“Get yourself in uniform, Major,” General Jiggs said.
“What the hell is all this?” MacMillan said.
“The way it works, Mac, is that I’m the general and you’re the major, and you do what I say.”
“Sir?” MacMillan asked.
“Greens will do nicely, Mac,” General Bellmon said. “Just shake it up.”
After MacMillan left, Felter smiled at General Bellmon.
“It came through, did it?” Felter asked.
“I brought the orders back with me,” Bellmon said. “You think he knows?”
“By now, I think he does,” Felter said.
“Well, we kept it quiet until now,” General Jiggs said. “With Mac, that’s an accomplishment. He has spies at every camp, post, and station in the army.”
They laughed.
MacMillan returned in a surprisingly short time wearing a green uniform.
“Where do you think, Wallace?” General Jiggs asked.
“Against the wall would be nice, sir,” Master Sergeant Wallace said, nodding at a wall on which more than a dozen framed photographs of army aircraft were hung.
“Come over here, Mac,” Jiggs said. “And you, too, Roxy.”
Roxy MacMillan, flushed with excitement, stood on one side of her husband, and General Jiggs stood on the other.
Bellmon took a folded sheath of papers from his tunic pocket.
“Attention to orders,” he said formally, but smiling. And then he began to read: “Extract from General Orders Number Two Thirty-one, Headquarters, Department of the Army, Washington 25, D.C., dated 31 January 1958. Paragraph 32. The following promotion in the Army of the United States is announced: Major Rudolph G. MacMillan, 0-678562, Infantry, to be Lieutenant Colonel, with date of rank from 1 October 1958. Official. James B. Pullman, Major General, U.S.A., Acting, The Adjutant General.”
“Jesus,” Lieutenant Colonel MacMillan said smiling, embarrassed.
“Who’s got the leaves?” General Jiggs asked. Barbara Bellmon handed him a small piece of cardboard onto which were pinned two silver oak leaves. He tore one off and handed it to Roxy. Next he tore the other off. Then, at Master Sergeant Wallace’s direction, they mimed pinning on the symbols of MacMillan’s new grade and moved a little closer, so there would be a good photograph for the press release.
IV
(One)
Quarters No. 33
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
1616 Hours, 31 December 1958
The commandant of the U.S. Army Special Warfare School, the sergeant major of the school, and three other of the school’s senior noncommissioned officers were sitting in fatigue uniform on the floor of the living room drinking beer. A galvanized iron washtub rested on newspapers spread on the floor. It held a case and a half of Miller’s High Life on a bed of ice. On a kitchen chair by the door from the foyer to the living room were a pile of green felt berets.
The commanding officer and his senior noncommissioned staff looked exhausted.
M/Sgt Wojinski, after a couple of beers, asked Colonel Hanrahan a very odd question.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Colonel, who’s your pal in the White House?”
“My pal in the White House? You mean as in Washington, D.C., that White House?”
Wojinski nodded his massive head solemnly.
“I don’t know a soul in the White House,” Hanrahan replied, truthfully. “Except General of the Army Eisenhower, of course. He’s an old buddy.”
“No shit?” Wojinski asked, impressed.
“Oh, sure, Ski,” Hanrahan said. “He called upon me for tactical advice all through the war.”
“Bullshit,” Wojinski said.
“You want to know where I met Eisenhower?” Hanrahan asked, and then went on without waiting for a reply. “In 1944, in London. I was back from Greece, and somebody got the brilliant idea that I should brief the Supreme Commander on what was going on in Greece. So I spent three days writing a speech, got all dressed up in a brand-new uniform, and went over to SHAEF prepared to dazzle him with my all-around brilliance. So I waited patiently in the theater while a dozen other officers—none less than a bull colonel—made their pitch. When it was my turn, Eisenhower glanced at his watch, stood up, looked at me, and said, ‘Sorry, son, we’ve run out of time.’ That’s how Ike and I came to be buddies. I don’t know anybody in the White House, Ski.”
“Got it,” M/Sgt Wojinski said, and winked at Colonel Hanrahan. “You don’t know a soul in the White House.”
“Good Christ, Ski!” Sergeant Major Taylor said.
“What the hell is he talking about, Taylor?” Hanrahan demanded of his sergeant major. “Do you know? Or has a little honest sweat and a couple of cold beers blown his mind?”
Taylor shrugged. Hanrahan didn’t like the look on his face.
“I asked you a question, Taylor,” Hanrahan said. There was a very subtle change of tone in his voice. It wasn’t the joking tone it had been a moment before.
“Sir,” Taylor said, “I happened to get a look at the directive. You were given command of the school DP.”
“DP? What the hell is that?”
“It means ‘Direction of the President,’ sir,” Taylor said.
“Are you sure?” Hanrahan asked.
DP did mean Direction of the President, the highest authority possible to cite in the military—an order from the Commander in Chief. Eisenhower got a DP during War II: Invade France. A DP had ordered the dropping of the atom bombs. But a DP was unlikely to be wasted on the assignment of a lowly colonel to a small school.
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“I have no idea what it means,” Hanrahan said. “But, I repeat, I don’t know a soul in the White House.”
“Yes, sir,” Taylor said.
Quarters No. 33 was a two-story, brick house built in 1937 on what was now known as the main post. In 1937, there had been nothing but the main post. But in World War II, Fort Bragg, an artillery base, had been designated as the training center for airborne (parachute) divisions, and vast tracts of sandy scrub land and pine had been converted within a matter of months to a “temporary” base capable of housing nearly 40,000 men and all the service facilities necessary to train and care for them.
When it was built, it was intended that Quarters No. 33 serve as family housing for officers in the grade of captain. One captain, who had memorialized his time at Bragg by carving his name, rank, and the dates of his occupancy on the inside of an upstairs bedroom closet door, had occupied the quarters for not quite two and a half years. By the time he was transferred and Quarters No. 33 became vacant for reassignment, the army had already grown much larger. The second officer to be assigned Quarters No. 33 had been a full colonel, and so had every officer since. The sixteen identical houses built to house captains and their families had long been known as “Colonel’s Row.”
Each occupant of Quarters No. 33 had perpetuated the custom of carving his name, rank, and dates of occupancy on the closet door, until there was no more room left. Then a sergeant skilled with his hands had taken the door down, sliced the part with the carvings thin enough so it could be framed, and mounted it in the foyer. A substantial majority of the colonels who had once lived in Quarters No. 33 had gone on to achieve high rank. The first occupant, for instance, had reached lieutenant general before being retired.
Assisted by Sergeant Major Taylor, M/Sgt Wojinski (the Operations Sergeant), M/Sgt Richard Stevens (the Armorer/ Artificer), and M/Sgt Dewey F. Carter (the Communications Sergeant)—in other words, Ski and his cronies—the present occupant of Quarters No. 33 had spent all day searching through the quartermaster Family Furniture warehouse for sufficient furniture so that his family could survive until their own furniture, now en route from Saigon, arrived.
There was not much furniture in the warehouse, and Hanrahan had concluded that the family furniture he had drawn from the exalted position of full colonel was even more beat up than the furniture he had drawn as a newly commissioned second lieutenant. But it would be enough to keep them afloat until their own furniture arrived. More important, it would get the family out of the Fayetteville Inn.
When Ski had asked him if he could “use a little help with the furniture,” he had accepted. If Ski went to the motor pool and drew a truck, that would mean that the PFC or the SP4 assigned to the truck would not have to drive it on a day that everybody else had off. And with Ski’s broad shoulders, between the two of them they could move anything.
