Woman lecturer seduces Senator’s son, screamed the banner headline in the New Haven Register.
“That’s a bloody insult,” said Jimmy.
“What do you mean?” asked Fletcher.
“I seduced her.”
When Fletcher stopped laughing, he continued to read the front page article:
Joanna Palmer, a lecturer in European history at Yale, has had her contract terminated by the University Ethics Committee, after admitting that she was having an affair with James Gates, a freshman she has been teaching for the past six months. Mr. Gates is the son of Senator Harry Gates. Last night, from their home in East Hartford…
Fletcher looked up. “How has your father taken it?”
“Tells me he’ll win by a landslide,” said Jimmy. “All the women’s rights groups are backing Joanna, and all the men think I’m the coolest thing since Dustin Hoffman’s Graduate. Dad also believes that the committee will be left with no choice but to reverse their decision long before the term ends.”
“And if they don’t?” asked Fletcher. “What chance is there of Joanna being offered another job?”
“That’s the least of her problems,” Jimmy replied, “because the phone hasn’t stopped ringing since the committee announced their decision. Both Radcliffe, where she did her undergraduate degree, and Columbia, where she completed her Ph.D., have offered her jobs, and that was before the opinion poll on the Today Show reported that eighty-two percent of their viewers thought she should be reinstated.”
“So what does she plan to do next?”
“Appeal, and my bet is that the committee won’t be able to ignore public opinion.”
“But where does that leave you?”
“I still want to marry Joanna, but she won’t hear of it until she know the result of her arbitration. She refuses to become engaged in case it influences the committee in her favor. She’s determined to win the case on its merits, not on public sentiment.”
“That’s a remarkable woman you’ve got yourself involved with,” said Fletcher.
“I agree,” said Jimmy. “And you only know the half of it.”
14
Lt. Nat Cartwright had been stenciled on the door of his little office at MACV headquarters even before he’d arrived in Saigon. It quickly became clear to Nat that he was to be desk-bound for his entire watch, not even allowed to discover where the front line was. On arrival, he did not join his regiment in the field, but was assigned to Combat Service Support. Colonel Tremlett’s dispatches had obviously landed in Saigon long before he had.
Nat was described on the daily manifest as a quartermaster, which allowed those above him to pile up the paperwork, and those below him to take their time carrying out his orders. They all seemed to be involved in the plot, a plot that resulted in Nat spending every working hour filling in regulation forms for items as varied as baked beans and Chinook helicopters. Seven hundred and twenty-two tons of supplies were flown into the capital every week, and it was Nat’s duty to see they reached the front line. In any one month, he handled over nine thousand items. Everything managed to get there except him. He even resorted to sleeping with the commanding officer’s secretary, but quickly discovered that Mollie had no real influence over her boss, although he did find out about her considerable expertise in unarmed combat.
Nat began leaving the office later and later each evening, and even began to wonder if he was in a foreign country. When you have a Big Mac and Coke for lunch, Kentucky Fried Chicken with a Budweiser for dinner, and return to the officers’ quarters every evening to watch the ABC News and reruns of 77 Sunset Strip, what proof is there that you ever left home?
Nat made several surreptitious attempts to join his regiment in the front line, but as the weeks passed he came to realize that Colonel Tremlett’s influence permeated everywhere; his applications would land back on his desk, rubber-stamped: Refused, reapply in one month.
Whenever Nat requested an interview to discuss the issue with a field officer, he never managed to see anyone above the rank of staff major. On each occasion, a different officer would spend half an hour trying to convince Nat that he was doing a valuable and worthwhile job in requisition. His combat file was the thinnest in Saigon.
Nat was beginning to realize that his stand on “a matter of principle” had served no purpose. In a month’s time Tom would be starting his second year at Yale, and what did he have to show for his efforts other than a crew cut and an inside knowledge of how many paper clips the army required in Vietnam in any one month?
Nat was sitting in his office, preparing for the new intake of recruits due to report the following Monday, when all that changed.
Accommodation, clothing and travel documents had kept him occupied all day and well into the evening. Urgent was stamped on several of them, as the CO always wanted to be fully briefed on the background of any new intake before they landed in Saigon. Nat hadn’t noticed how long the task had taken, and when he had completed the final form, he decided to drop them off in the adjutant’s office before grabbing something to eat in the officers’ mess.
As he strolled past the ops room, he experienced a surge of anger; all the training he had been put through at Fort Dix and Fort Benning had been a complete waste of time. Although it was nearly eight o’clock, there were still a dozen or so operatives, some of whom he recognized, manning the phones and updating a large operational map of North Vietnam.
On his way back from the adjutant’s office, Nat dropped into the ops room to see if anyone was free to join him for dinner. He found himself listening to the troop movements of the Second Battalion, 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment. He would have slipped back out and gone to the mess alone if it hadn’t been his own regiment. The Second Battalion was facing a barrage of mortar fire from the Vietcong and was holed up on the wrong side of the Dyng River, defending itself from a further onslaught. The red phone on the desk in front of Nat began to ring insistently. Nat didn’t move a muscle.
“Don’t just stand there, Lieutenant, pick it up and find out what they want,” demanded the operations officer. Nat quickly obeyed the order.
“Mayday, Mayday, this is Captain Tyler, do you read me?”
“I do, Captain, this is Lieutenant Cartwright. How can I help, sir?”
“My platoon has been ambushed by Victor Charlie just above the Dyng River, grid reference SE42 NNE71. I need a flight of Hueys with full medical backup. I have ninety-six men, eleven of them are already down, three dead, eight injured.”
A staff sergeant came off another phone. “How do I reach emergency rescue?” asked Nat.
“Contact Blackbird base at the Eisenhower field. Pick up the white phone and give the officer of the watch the grid reference.”
Nat grabbed the white phone, and a sleepy voice answered.
“This is Lieutenant Cartwright. We have a Mayday call. Two platoons trapped on the north side of the Dyng River, grid reference SE42 NNE71; they’ve been ambushed and require immediate assistance.”
“Tell them we’ll be off the ground and on our way in five minutes,” said a voice now fully alert.
“Can I join you?” asked Nat, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, expecting the inevitable rejection.
“Are you authorized to fly in Hueys?”
“Yes, I am,” lied Nat.
“Any parachute experience?”
“Trained at Fort Benning,” said Nat, “sixteen jumps at six hundred feet from S-123s, and in any case, it’s my regiment out there.”
“Then if you can get here in time, Lieutenant, be my guest.”
Nat replaced the white phone and returned to the red one. They’re on their way, Captain,” was all he said.
Nat ran out of the ops room and into the parking lot. A duty corporal was dozing behind the wheel of a jeep. Nat leaped in beside him, banged the palm of his hand on the horn and said, “Blackbird base in five minutes.”
“But that’s about four miles away, sir,” said the driver.
“Then you’ll have to get moving, won’t you, Corporal,” shouted Nat.
The corporal switched on the engine, threw the jeep into gear, and accelerated out of the parking lot, lights on, leaving the palm of one hand on the horn and the other on the steering wheel. “Faster, faster,” repeated Nat, as those who were still on the streets of Saigon after curfew leaped out of their way along with several startled chickens. Three minutes later, Nat spotted a dozen Huey helicopters perched on the airfield up ahead. The blades on one of them were already rotating.
“Put your foot down,” Nat repeated.
“It’s already touching the floor, sir,” replied the corporal as the gates of the airfield came into sight. Nat counted again: seven of the helicopters now had their blades whirring.
“Shit,” he said as the first one took off.
The jeep screeched to a halt at the gates to the compound, where an MP asked to see their identity cards.
“I have to be on one of those choppers in under a minute,” shouted Nat passing over his papers. “Can’t you speed it up?”
“Just doing my job, sir,” said the MP as he checked both men’s papers.
Once both identity cards had been handed back, Nat pointed to the one helicopter whose blades were not yet rotating, and the corporal shot off toward it, skidding to a halt by an open door, just as its blades began to turn.
The pilot looked down and grinned, “You only just made it, Lieutenant,” he said. “Climb aboard.” The helicopter had lifted off even before Nat had been given a chance to click on his safety harness. “You want to hear the bad news, or the bad news?” asked the pilot.
“Try me,” said Nat.
“The rule in any emergency is always the same. Last off the ground is the first to land in enemy territory.”
“And the bad news?”
“Will you marry me?” asked Jimmy.
Joanna turned and looked at the man who had brought her more happiness in the past year than she could ever have imagined possible. “If you still want to ask me the same question on the day you graduate, freshman, my reply will be yes, but today the answer is still no.”
“But why? What could have possibly changed in a year or two’s time?”
“You’ll be a little older, and hopefully a little wiser,” replied Joanna with a smile. “I’m twenty-five and you’re not yet twenty.”
“What difference can that make if we want to spend the rest of our lives together?”
“Just that you might not feel that way when I’m fifty and you’re forty-five.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” said Jimmy. “At fifty you’ll be in your prime, and I’ll be a debauched husk, so you’d better grab me while I’ve still got some energy left.”
Joanna laughed. “Try not to forget, freshman, that what we’ve been through during the past few weeks may also be affecting your judgment.”
“I don’t agree. I believe the experience can only have strengthened our relationship.”
“That’s possible,” said Joanna, “but in the long run, you should never make an irreversible decision on the back of good or bad news, because it’s just possible that one of us will feel differently when this all blows over.”
“Do you feel differently?” asked Jimmy quietly.
“No, I don’t,” said Joanna firmly, as she touched his cheek. “But my parents have been married for nearly thirty years, and my grandparents lived to celebrate their golden wedding anniversary, so when I get married I want it to be for life.”
“All the more reason for us to get married as quickly as possible,” said Jimmy. “After all, I’m going to have to live to the age of seventy if we hope to celebrate our golden wedding.”
Joanna laughed. “I’ll bet your friend Fletcher would agree with me.”
“You could be right, but you’re not marrying Fletcher. In any case, my bet is that he and my sister will be together for at least fifty years.”
“Freshman, I couldn’t love you anymore if I wanted to, but remember that I’ll be at Columbia next fall, and you’ll still be at Yale.”
“But you can still change your mind about taking that job at Columbia.”
“No, it was only public opinion that forced the board to reverse their decision. If you’d seen the look on their faces when they delivered their verdict, you’d have realized they couldn’t wait to see the back of me. We’ve made our point, freshman, so I think it would be better for everyone if I moved on.”
“Not everyone,” said Jimmy quietly.
“Because once I’m no longer around to haunt them, they’re going to find it far easier to amend the rules,” said Joanna, ignoring his comment. “In twenty years’ time, students will never believe such a ridiculous regulation even existed.”
“Then I’ll have to get myself a commuter ticket to New York, because I’m not going to let you out of my sight.”
“I’ll be at the station to meet you, freshman, but while I’m away, I hope you’ll take out other women. Then, if you still feel the same way about me on the day you graduate, I’ll be happy to say yes,” she added as the alarm went off.
“Hell,” said Jimmy, as he leaped out of bed, “can I use the bathroom first, because I’ve a nine o’clock lecture, and I don’t even know what the subject is.”
“Napoleon and his influence on the development of American law,” said Joanna.
“I thought you told us that American law was more influenced by the Romans and the English than any other nation?”
“Half a mark, freshman, but you’ll still need to attend my nine o’clock lecture if you hope to find out why. By the way, do you think you could do two things for me?”
“Only two?” said Jimmy as he turned on the shower.
“Could you stop staring at me like a lost puppy whenever I give a lecture?”
Jimmy stuck his head back around the door, “No,” he said, as he watched Joanna slip out of her nightie. “What’s the second?”
“Well, could you at least look interested in what I’m saying, and perhaps even take the occasional note?”
“Why should I bother to take notes when it’s you who grades my papers?”
“Because you won’t be pleased with the grade I’ve given your latest effort,” said Joanna, as she joined him in the shower.
“Oh, and I was hoping for an A for that particular masterpiece,” said Jimmy as he began soaping her breasts.
“Do you by any chance recall who you suggested was the biggest influence on Napoleon?”
“Josephine,” said Jimmy without hesitation.
“That might even have been the correct answer, but it isn’t what you wrote in your essay.”
Jimmy stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. “What did I write?” he asked, turning to face her.
“Joanna.”
Within minutes, all twelve helicopters were flying in a V formation. Nat looked behind him at the two rear gunners, who were staring intently out into the black cloudless night. He slipped on a pair of earphones and listened to the flight lieutenant.
“Blackbird One to group, we’ll be out of allied air space in four minutes, then I anticipate an ETA of twenty-one hundred hours.”
Nat found himself sitting bolt upright as he listened to the young pilot. He glanced out of a side window at stars that would never be seen on the American continent. He could feel the adrenalin pumping through his body as they flew nearer to the enemy lines. At last he felt he was part of this damn man’s war. His only surprise was that he sensed no fear. Perhaps that would come later.
“We’re moving into enemy territory,” said the flight lieutenant as if he were crossing a busy road. “Are you receiving me, ground leader?”
There was a crackling on the line before a voice said, “I hear you, Blackbird One, what’s your position?” Nat recognized the southern drawl of Captain Dick Tyler.
“We’re approximately fifty miles south of you.”
“Copy that, expect you to rendezvous in fifte
en minutes.”
“Roger. You won’t see us until the last moment, because we’re keeping all our external lights off.”
“Copy that,” came back the same drawl.
“Have you identified a possible landing spot?”
“There’s a small piece of sheltered land on a ridge just below me,” replied Tyler, “but it will only take one helicopter at a time, and because of the rain, not to mention the mud, landing could be a hell of a problem.”
“What’s your current position?”
“I’m still at my same grid reference just north of the Dyng River,” Tyler paused, “and I’m fairly sure that the VC have begun crossing the river.”
“How many men do you have with you?”
“Seventy-eight.” Nat knew that the full complement of two platoons was ninety-six. “And how many bodies?” asked the flight lieutenant, as if he were asking how many eggs the captain wanted for breakfast.
“Eighteen.”
“OK, be ready to put six men and two bodies into each chopper, and make sure you’re able to climb on board the moment you see me.”
“We’ll be ready,” said the captain. “What time do you have?”
“Twenty thirty-three,” said the flight lieutenant.
“Then at twenty forty-eight, I’ll put up one red flare.”
“Twenty forty-eight, one red flare,” repeated the flight lieutenant, “Roger and out.”
Nat was impressed by how calm the flight lieutenant appeared to be when he, his co-pilot and both rear gunners could be dead in twenty minutes. But as he had been reminded so often by Colonel Tremlett, more lives are saved by calm men than brave ones. No one spoke for the next fifteen minutes. It gave Nat time to think about the decision he’d made; would he also be dead in twenty minutes?
Nat then endured the longest fifteen minutes of his life, staring out across acres of dense jungle lit only by a half moon while radio silence was maintained. He looked back at the rear gunners as the chopper skimmed above the tree line. They were already clasping their guns, thumbs on the buttons, alert for any trouble. Nat was looking out of a side window when suddenly a red flare shot high into the sky. He couldn’t help thinking that he would have been having coffee in the mess around now.
Sons of Fortune Page 11
