The Majors

by W. E. B Griffin

  “What the hell is a rich man like that doing in the army?”

  “I wasn’t aware that being poor was a soldierly virtue,” Carson Newburgh said, icily.

  “Georgie Patton was rich,” E. Z. Black said. “He was a good soldier. So was Carson. So is Lowell, for that matter. He ran the breakout, Task Force Lowell, from Pusan.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the Chief of Staff said. “I know about him. He’s the wise-ass who then got up and testified in a court-martial that he could see nothing wrong with shooting officers who were running in the wrong direction. I knew he had a big mouth, but I didn’t know he was rich.” He stopped, then went on: “Nothing personal, Carson, goddamnit, you know that.”

  “You gennlemen just say when you want to eat,” Master Sergeant Wesley said, from the door to the study.

  “In fifteen minutes, Wes,” General Black said.

  “George Patton didn’t go around fucking senator’s wives,” the Chief of Staff said. Black saw that he was working himself into a rage and wondered why.

  “It can be controlled,” the senator said. “I just thought it was worth mentioning.”

  “You bet your sweet ass it will be controlled,” the Chief of Staff said. “We’ll send the sonofabitch to Greenland and let him screw a polar bear.”

  “Hey, come on,” the senator said. “The major is not the first soldier to get his ashes hauled outside the nuptial couch. MacArthur had a Eurasian mistress stashed in an apartment when he was Chief of Staff. Even the chastity part of Eisenhower’s wartime sainthood had been questioned.”

  “You don’t believe that cheap gossip, do you?” the Chief of Staff snapped. “I’ll remind you, you’re talking about the President.”

  “Of course, I don’t believe it,” the senator said, angrily, thickly sarcastic. “And I was there. I believe he commissioned that big-teated Limey as an American officer solely because she did such a splendid job driving his jeep. I also believe in the tooth fairy.”

  The Chief of Staff glowered at him.

  “I just remembered something else about your man Lowell, General,” he said to Black.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Remember the flap when Life ran the story with the pictures of the M48 with ‘Blueballs’ painted on the turret? And that actress that doesn’t wear any underwear with her arms around the crew? Georgia Paige? I remember that some damned fool of a young officer took her up to the front, and subsequently screwed her on every available horizontal surface, and I just remembered his name. That was your man Lowell, wasn’t it, General?”

  “I believe it was,” Black said. “So what?”

  “He gets around, doesn’t he?” the senator chuckled.

  “What do you mean, so what?” the Chief of Staff demanded, angrily.

  “You remember, I’m sure,” Black said, “what Phil Sheridan said about soldiers that don’t fuck.”

  “He was speaking of soldiers, not officers of the General Staff Corps,” the Chief of Staff said, so furiously that spittle flew.

  “I don’t give a good goddamn if he screws orangutangs,” Black said. “So long as he does his duty and does it as well as this particular, young, unmarried officer does his.”

  “Hey! Hey!” the senator said. “Tempers, gentlemen!”

  The Chief of Staff glowered at him and then at E. Z. Black. In a moment he got control of his voice.

  “To sum up,” the Chief of Staff said icily, “what we have here is a clear and blatant violation of the Key West Agreement of 1948, which says the army will not, repeat not, under any circumstances arm its aircraft. We have been caught with our ass hanging out. And for the cherry on top of the cake, one of the officers and gentlemen involved in this breach of good faith is involved with a senator’s lady.”

  “I am the officer primarily involved, General,” Black said. “And so far as the senator’s lady is concerned, you can make that ‘was involved.’ I’ll see that it’s stopped.”

  “That still leaves us with your goddamned armed helicopters, which I’m sure the air force is sure to bring to the attention of the Washington Post just as soon as they can,” the Chief of Staff said.

  “I’ve been thinking about this helicopter thing,” the senator said. “What I think you should do is go public with it. Call a press conference. Show the goddamned thing off. If it works, the air force would look pretty goddamned silly bitching about it.”

  “It works,” E. Z. Black said. “And the bottom line is that we can afford to swap helicopters for tanks all day long.”

  The Chief of Staff looked at him for a long moment.

  “I don’t see where we have any other alternative to this mess in which the Vice Chief of Staff has enmeshed us,” he said.

  “You’re going to have to get off the dime, General,” the senator said, “before the air force lowers the boom.”

  “Wesley!” the Chief of Staff called out.

  Master Sergeant Wesley appeared.

  “Yes, suh?”

  “Get somebody on the horn, please, Wes. See if you can find the Chief of Information. Ask him if he’s free to join us for a drink. If you can’t find the Chief of Information, get his deputy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Wesley said.

  (Two)

  Ozark, Alabama

  12 December 1958

  “Mr. Dutton’s office,” Howard Dutton’s private secretary purred into the telephone.

  “I have a collect call for anyone from Mrs. Greer in San Antonio,” the operator’s somewhat twangy voice announced.

  “This is Mr. Howard Dutton’s office,” Howard Dutton’s secretary repeated.”

  “I have a collect call for anyone from Mrs. Greer in San Antonio,” the operator repeated.

  “Just a minute, Operator,” Howard Dutton’s secretary said. She laid the phone down and walked to Howard Dutton’s office.

  “Mistuh Dutton, we got a collect call for anybody from some Mrs. Greer,” she said. “What do I tell her?”

  “Good Christ!” Howard Dutton said, spinning around in his high-backed leather chair to face the credenza with the telephones on it. There were two telephones, each equipped with buttons that lit when the line was in use. There were four buttons on each telephone. Of the eight buttons, four were lit.

  Howard Dutton got the San Antonio operator on the third try.

  “Put it through, put it through,” he had twice announced to somewhat startled users of the telephone.

  “Go ‘head, please,’” the operator finally said.

  “Daddy?”

  “How’s my baby?” Howard Dutton asked. “Nothing wrong, honey, is there?”

  “Daddy, could I come home a little early for Christmas?”

  “Honey, you can come anytime you want to come home,” Howard Dutton said. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  The baby began to cry.

  Goddamn that bastard! What has he done to my Melody?

  “He’s throwing up again, damn him,” Melody said. “All over my dress.”

  “Now, you just calm down, honey,” Howard Dutton said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Could I come home this afternoon? Or tonight, really? On the eight thirty-two flight from Atlanta?”

  “Eight thirty-two,” Howard Dutton repeated. He turned to his desk for a pencil, and saw his secretary. “Write this down,” he snapped. “Eight thirty-two from Atlanta.” He took his hand off the telephone mouthpiece.

  “I’ll be there, honey,” he said. “I’ll be waiting for you when you get off the plane.”

  He remembered that the call had been collect. Did that mean she didn’t have any money?

  Why doesn’t she have any money?

  “Now, you just tell me what’s wrong,” Howard Dutton said, “and your daddy’ll take care of it.”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Daddy,” Melody said.

  “Where’s your husband?” he demanded.

  “‘My husband,’” Melody mocked him, “is halfway to Rucker in the Bi
g Bad Bird. He got orders this morning to bring the Big Bad Bird to Rucker ASAP.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Howard Dutton confessed, unhappily.

  “He’s flying the gunship up there. ASAP: As Soon As Possible. The orders said for a minimum period of thirty days. So I’m on my way, too.”

  “You sure you got enough money? I could call the bank down there, and see that you had some money right away.”

  “Eight thirty-two, Daddy,” Melody said, and hung up.

  Howard Dutton put the telephone back in its cradle and spun the chair around. His secretary was standing there with her pencil poised over her steno book. Stupid damned female! He sometimes almost wished that Prissy was back.

  “I’ll be at my house,” he said to her and walked out of the office.

  Prissy was sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of coffee with the maid when he walked in.

  “What are you doing home?” she asked.

  “Melody and the baby are coming on the eight thirty-two from Atlanta,” he said. For some inexplicable reason, making the announcement made him feel like crying.

  “Where’s Ed? Is he coming?” Prissy asked.

  “He’s flying up by himself,” Howard Dutton said.

  “Why aren’t they flying together?” Prissy asked.

  Stupid damned female.

  “I think they have a rule against flying infants in army helicopters,” he said, sarcastically.

  “You could have explained that he was flying with the army,” Prissy said. “Well, we’ll just have to get ready for them.”

  “She said they’ll be here for at least thirty days,” Howard said.

  “Eight thirty-two? That’s plenty of time. You didn’t have to come home. You could have called from the office.”

  He went to his office and opened a drawer and took a long pull at the neck of a quart bottle of Jack Daniels.

  Between a stupid female at home and a stupid female in the office, it was a miracle he hadn’t lost his mind. He sat down at his desk and reached out and adjusted a double photo frame so that he could look at it better.

  The left was Melody’s graduation picture. The right was of Melody and the baby. She looked like a madonna, Howard Dutton thought. There was no other word to describe the way Melody looked holding her baby.

  He took another pull at the bottle of Jack Daniels and then looked at his watch. It was nine forty. Melody would be home in less than twelve hours.

  (Three)

  U.S. Army Aviation Combat Developments Agency

  Fort Rucker, Alabama

  12 December 1958

  “You understand, Colonel, I’m sure, that I’ve had only the briefest of briefings. About the only orders I got from the general were to get my show on the road.”

  The speaker was Colonel Tim F. Brandon, Chief, Special Operations Branch, Media Relations Division, Office of the Chief of Information, Department of the Army.

  “What general is that?” Colonel Robert F. Bellmon asked, innocently.

  “The Chief of Information,” Colonel Brandon said.

  “Of course,” Colonel Bellmon said. He had just noticed that if one was to judge from the display of ribbons on Colonel Brandon’s tunic, he had managed to rise to colonel of infantry without ever once having heard a shot fired in anger.

  “Now, this little operation of ours enjoys a very high priority,” Colonel Brandon said.

  “So I understand,” Colonel Bellmon replied. He had received a telephone call at 11:30 the night before from the Vice Chief of the Staff of the U.S. Army, informing him that a couple of PIO assholes would be coming to see him; the decision had been to go public with the rocket-armed gunship.

  The Big Bad Bird itself had already been ordered from Hood to Rucker and Hood had been ordered to fly the technicians and their equipment to Rucker as soon as that could be arranged.

  “Go along as far as you can with these guys, Bob. Lean over backward. But if you need me, get on the horn.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bellmon had said to the Vice Chief of Staff.

  There was a knock on the door. Bellmon looked up and motioned for MacMillan to come in. MacMillan was in a flight suit. He had just returned, successfully, to judge from the OK sign he made, from arranging for a portable hangar to be erected to house the gunship out near Hanchey—and far from prying eyes.

  “Colonel Brandon,” Colonel Bellmon said, “this is Major MacMillan. Major MacMillan is the man you’ll be working with.”

  “I had hoped that we would be working directly, so to speak, together on this,” Colonel Brandon said.

  “Major MacMillan knows as much, more, about the Big Bad Bird than I do,” Colonel Bellmon said.

  “I see,” Colonel Brandon said.

  “You got an ETA on the Bird, Mac?” Bellmon asked.

  “Greer called from Dallas,” MacMillan said. “About thirty minutes ago. Said he’d be on the ground about an hour. Unless he’s called since, he’s at Love Field.”

  “That’s an unfortunate term,” Colonel Brandon said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “‘Big Bad Bird,’” Colonel Brandon said. “We need something stronger. Like ‘Tiger.’”

  “‘Tiger’ is a German tank,” MacMillan said.

  “We’ll work on that later,” Colonel Brandon said. “‘Big Bad Bird’ is just not going to cut the mustard. Now, what about this guy with the Medal? What’s he look like?”

  MacMillan looked at Colonel Brandon in disbelief. Colonel Bellmon smiled broadly.

  “I was told one of your officers has the Congressional,” Colonel Brandon said. “I’m hoping two things: first, that he has been connected with the gunship and second, that he’s photogenic and can talk.”

  “Say something for the colonel, Mac,” Bellmon said.

  “I beg your pardon, Major,” Colonel Brandon said. “Certainly, no offense was intended. What I was saying was that I hoped you would turn out to be someone we can put on camera. Obviously, you’re more than I hoped for.”

  Bellmon pushed his intercom button. “Darlene, would you have someone bring some coffee in here, please? And if Mrs. Hyde is in the building, would you run her down and ask her to come in here, please?”

  “Now that we have the problem of the talking head solved,” Colonel Brandon said, “we can think about a new name for the gunship. I don’t even know what it looks like. There must be a photograph of it around somewhere?”

  “They’re classified Secret, Sensitive,” Colonel Bellmon said. “I haven’t been informed that you’re so cleared, Colonel.”

  Rhonda Wilson Hyde knocked at the door and came in without waiting to be invited.

  “Colonel,” Colonel Bellmon said, “this is Mrs. Hyde, our administrative officer. Rhonda, this is Colonel Brandon, of the Office of the Chief of Information.”

  Colonel Brandon and Mrs. Hyde smiled at one another. Major MacMillan looked at Colonel Bellmon and mouthed the word “Geronimo.”

  “Mrs. Hyde will take care of getting you cleared, Colonel,” Bellmon said. “And otherwise take care of your needs. And now, if you’ll excuse us, I have some other matters to discuss with the Talking Head.”

  (Four)

  McLean, Virginia

  15 December 1958

  The morning briefing, as it sometimes did, had become the afternoon briefing, and the blinds had been drawn against the afternoon sun in Conference Room III.

  Sanford T. Felter stayed behind, as he sometimes did, when the briefing officers and the analysts were dismissed.

  “Are you going to be in town over the holidays?” Felter asked, when everyone else had left the room.

  “Yes,” the Director said. “Special reason for asking?”

  “If it can be worked in, I’d like to take a little leave. Say, ten days from the twenty-first?”

  “You don’t have to ask me, Felter.”

  “I hoped you’d take over briefing the boss,” Felter said.

  “Sure,” the Director sai
d. “Where you going?”

  “To Fort Rucker,” Felter said.

  “What the hell is going on down there?” the Director asked. Felter looked at him curiously. The Director went on: “I noticed a memo that E. Z. Black is going to be at Rucker over the holidays.”

  “I’m not going with him,” Felter said. “I’m just going to visit some friends.”

  “Well, at least the communications will be in. We can get the army to pay for them. Just have them get you a couple of secure lines.”

  Felter’s curiosity got the best of him. He walked to one of the telephones on the conference table and dialed a two-digit number.

  “Army liaison,” a voice said. “Colonel Ford.”

  “Sanford Felter, Colonel,” Felter said. “Why is General Black going to be at Fort Rucker over the holidays?”

  “Sir, the army is going to go public about its helicopter gunship. There’s going to be a press junket. The general’s going to make the announcement himself.”

  “Thank you,” Felter said and hung up.

  The Director looked at him curiously.

  “It would seem the air force has caught the army arming its helicopters,” Felter said. “And have decided the best defense is a good offense. Black is going to make the announcement himself.”

  “Christ!” the Director said. “Well, at least we’re not involved.”

  “No,” Felter said.

  “Who do you think is right, Sandy?” the Director said.

  “The army,” Felter said. “Was that the response you expected of me?”

  “I’m sure it’s based on your analysis of the problem,” the Director said, “and not because you march in the rear rank of the Long Gray Line.”

  “We furnished the air force with the material generated in Algeria,” Felter said. “They didn’t do anything with it. Arming helicopters is an idea whose time has come. The army just filled the vacuum.”

  “The air force is going to cry ‘foul,’” the Director said.

  “The air force still believes they won the war in Europe with bombers,” Felter said.

  The Director chuckled. “Now, that was a voice from the Long Gray Line,” he said.