The Majors

by W. E. B Griffin

  There was no tank known to military intelligence with armor strong enough to resist a direct hit from a 3.5 inch rocket during the “most efficient” phase of the rocket’s flight. That is to say, when the target was from 50 to 350 yards from the point where the rocket had been launched. It took the rocket about 50 yards to get up to speed, and after 350 yards it began to lose speed. But within the “most efficient” phase of its flight envelope, the rocket would pass through the armor of any known tank like a drop of molten steel through a stick of butter. And then it would explode.

  The testing that the Big Bad Bird was going through now had little to do with the practical military application for which it was intended. It was now preparing for what the Big Bad Bird People, as they called themselves, had chosen to call its “screen test.”

  Colonel Tim F. Brandon was not particularly amused by this attitude, but he had been around long enough to understand that troops in the field seldom (if ever) understood how important public relations was to the army as a whole. And he also understood that it was unlikely that no explanation would ever change the attitude of the troops. It was something he just had to live with, meanwhile doing the best job he was capable of.

  And he was correctly convinced that he could do one hell of a good job.

  The debut of “the Viper” (which is what Colonel Brandon had decided to call the Big Bad Bird) would take place early in the morning of 27 December 1958. All three television networks were sending camera crews, and there would be the army crew to make film available to other outlets. A special camera platform had been erected. Additionally, three remote-controlled cameras had been set up in sandbag-protected emplacements along the route of the tank, so that the actual strike of the rockets on the tank could be filmed closeup.

  Colonel Tim F. Brandon, again correctly, considered the tanks proof positive that he knew just what the hell he was about.

  Eleven Russian T34 tanks had come into American possession from various sources. They had been studied in great detail by armor and ordnance tactical and technical experts and then turned over to Fort Riley, Kansas (less one tank which went to the Ordnance Museum at Aberdeen Proving Ground and another which went to the George S. Patton Museum at Fort Knox, Kentucky). Fort Riley had a unit trained in Soviet Army tactics, which was used in maneuvers. The availability of genuine Red Army T34s lent an aura of authenticity to the maneuvers that could be accomplished in no other manner.

  They had bellowed in outrage when the TWX came.

  HQ DEPT OF THE ARMY WASH DC 17 DEC 59

  COMMANDING GENERAL FT RILEY KANSAS

  TWX CONFIRMS TELECON CG FT RILEY AND VICE DSCOPS 0900 HRS 17 DEC 59:

  CG FT RILEY WILL IMMEDIATELY TAKE STEPS TO MOVE THREE (3) OPERATING T34 TANKS PRESENTLY ASSIGNED USA MANEUVER GROUP FT RILEY TO USA AVIATION COMBAT DEVELOPMENTS AGENCY FT RUCKER ALA. PRIORITY OF FT RUCKER OPERATION REQUIRES TANKS ARRIVE IN OPERATING CONDITION NOT LATER THAN 2400 HOURS 20 DEC 59. CG FT RILEY WILL ASSURE THAT SUFFICIENT REDUNDANT PERSONNEL, EQUIPMENT, AND TRANSPORT EQUIPMENT ARE INVOLVED TO ACCOMPLISH THE FOREGOING. DSCOPS DIRECTS THAT THE MOST REPEAT MOST SERVICEABLE OF AVAILABLE T34S BE SENT TO FT RUCKER.

  BY COMMAND OF DCSOPS:

  WALTER HAGEMEN, BRIG GEN, USA

  When the convoy arrived from Riley, the crews of the T34s were somewhat ambivalent about what Colonel Tim F. Brandon was going to do with their T34s. On the one hand, they had nursed them along for several years now, a difficult task in which they took justifiable pride, and it seemed like a goddamned shame to just blow the bastards away.

  On the other hand, the T34s had been a real bitch to drive and maintain, and if the sonsofbitches were blown away, the army would have to come up with M46s or M48s for them. Their jobs would be a hell of a lot easier. If you needed a track for an M48, you called up Chrysler. You didn’t have to make the sonofabitch yourself.

  It looked like it was going to be one hell of a show, too.

  More than one of the crew sergeants, after seeing what was going on, rethought his decision that the WOC program was so much bullshit.

  They were particularly impressed with Warrant Officer Junior Grade William B. Franklin. Mr. Franklin told them he had just graduated from the WOC program and had been assigned to Aviation Combat Developments because of his service as an EM in Algeria.

  Flying something like the Bird seemed to be a far more pleasant occupation than nursing a T34 or for that matter an M48 through the mud. Lieutenant Greer, the Big Bad Bird pilot, was also an ex-EM who had gone to WOC school earlier on. They’d just laid a commission on him.

  And in the back of all their minds was the thought that if the Bird did what it was alleged it could do—blow away tanks—then it followed that the Russians would figure out how to do it, sooner or later, and they might one day find themselves sitting in an M48 with a Russian chopper ready to shoot a 3.5 up their ass.

  And one of their number, a guy who had been in Korea in the early days, reported that he had run into his CO.

  “I seen that 73rd Heavy Tank patch on his shoulder, and officer or not, I slapped his back, and it was an officer, all right. It was the goddamned post commander. But he remembered me, so it was all right. Even remembered my name, and told me if I wanted to apply for the WOC program, he’d do what he could to help me.

  “And I tell you who else I saw here. I’m sure it was him. ‘The Duke.’ They called him that. Would you believe he was twenty-four years old when he made major? No shit. Twenty fucking four years old. He ran Task Force Lowell, forty-eight M48s and flock of half-tracks with multiple .50s on them, and just forget the flanks, fellas, through the gooks like shit through a goose. You see people like that around and you got to admit that everybody in aviation isn’t a candy-ass who can’t piss standing up. I’m getting a little sick of running around making like a fucking Russian anyhow. I’m thinking very seriously of giving this aviation a try. What have I got to lose?”

  Colonel Tim F. Brandon believed in “practice makes perfect” nearly as devoutly as he believed in Murphy’s Law.

  In order that absolutely nothing could go wrong with the events scheduled for 27 December 1958, he not only ran dry runs, but dry runs of the dry runs.

  He acquired control of two adjacent ranges, built as 105 cannon ranges in the 1940s. One of the ranges would house the actual demonstration for the media. The other was the dry run range.

  There was only one “Viper,” and the colonel had no intention of running any risk of damaging the Viper that wasn’t absolutely necessary. After it did its thing (destroyed a moving, absolutely legitimate, Red Army T34 with rocket fire), it would immediately land in Area “A,” where it would serve as a back-drop for the announcement by General E. Z. Black of the army’s latest accomplishment to guarantee the peace. Major MacMillan would be there, wearing the Medal. Behind them, to show that the army was a youthful outfit which offered black youth an opportunity limited only by their ability, would be that colored warrant officer and Lieutenant Greer. Greer would actually fly the Viper during the demonstration, but it would be implied that MacMillan, the old soldier/hero figure had done so. Greer didn’t look old enough to be the chief test pilot. It would look as if the army didn’t have the sense to put someone mature in charge of something as important as the Viper.

  The Viper had been painted. The Viper now had fangs. Colonel Brandon had gotten the idea from the P40s flown by the American Volunteer Group in China before War II. Colonel Brandon knew what the Big Bad Bird People thought about the Viper and the painted fangs. But he didn’t even try to bring them around to his way of thinking. He had more important things to do with his time.

  On Demonstration Day there would be no one in the moving, bonafide Russian T34, of course. The controls would be locked in place. The tank would be started across the range by one of the troops from Riley, who would then jump off to be picked up by a waiting jeep. He would then have ninety seconds—plenty of time—to get out of the way before the first rocket could possibly be fir
ed.

  In the dry run for the dry run, conducted on Alternate Range B, a regular unarmed H-19B from the post fleet was used. The dry run for the dry run was primarily to come up with times for the scenario. Once they had the rough times, they would move to the Demonstration Range for several levels of dry runs, starting out with the regular H-19B from the post fleet. On 26 December came the dress rehearsal, which would be identical to the actual demonstration, except that there would be no one there but the participants. The Viper would be flown, and the T34 would be moving with its controls locked in place, and the Viper would fly by the camera platform close enough to permit the army cameramen to get a good shot of the fangs and the canisters, and then the Viper would destroy one of the T34s.

  The film of that event would be processed overnight in Atlanta (an L-23 with a backup had been laid on for that purpose), and copies would be available to the networks the next day immediately after the demonstration, in case something went wrong when they were filming the real thing.

  There would be only one practice use of the Viper. Colonel Tim F. Brandon felt that was a risk he was just going to have to take.

  Col. Brandon was not all surprised when he saw the white-painted H-13H of the post commander making an approach to the inflatable hangar. The Chief of Information had told him on the telephone that morning that he was personally going to call General Jiggs to make him aware of how important it was that everything go smoothly on 27 December, and thus insure General Jiggs’s wholehearted cooperation.

  When he saw that the general was alone in the H-13H, Colonel Brandon had another thought: flying generals! That ought to be worth ninety seconds on the six o’clock news. Maybe he could even get some mileage out of it during the demonstration. He decided he would put that on the back burner for a while, give himself some time to think about it. His next-to-first thought now was that he should save it for a later day.

  Colonel Brandon walked out to the H-13H. Some of the Big Bad Bird People had started to do the same thing, but when they saw him, they stopped.

  General Jiggs put his cap on before he pushed open the plexiglass door in the H-13H’s bubble. That would make a good shot, Colonel Brandon thought. That would be the first time the viewer would realize he wasn’t looking at some ordinary captain or major. He’d see instead the two stars on the general’s overseas hat.

  Colonel Brandon saluted.

  “Good afternoon, General,” he said. “I’m Colonel Brandon.”

  “I was just talking about you,” General Jiggs said.

  “You were, sir?”

  “Your boss just called me up,” General Jiggs said, “to inquire if you were causing me any trouble. I told him that so far as I knew, you were behaving yourself and staying out of the way as much as possible.”

  Colonel Brandon didn’t know how to take that. He said nothing.

  “I understand Major Lowell is out here,” General Jiggs said.

  “Yes, sir,” Colonel Brandon said. “He’s working on the Viper ordnance.”

  “The what ordnance?”

  “I have tentative approval for ‘Viper’ as semiofficial, that is to say, popular nomenclature for the gunship, sir.”

  “Fascinating,” General Jiggs said. “Is Lowell in that tent?”

  “I’ll get him, sir,” Colonel Brandon said.

  “I’ll find him,” General Jiggs said. When Colonel Brandon fell in step with him, he added: “I want to see him alone, Colonel.”

  Major Lowell and Lieutenant Greer and Warrant Officers Franklin and Cramer (fifty-five, gray-haired, and leather-skinned, the old-model warrant officer) were doing something to the rocket launcher feed mechanism.

  Mr. Cramer was the first to see the general approaching. He nodded his head, calling attention to him, but did not call attention. The others kept working. Mr. Franklin looked a little nervous, as if he was wondering if it was his function as the junior officer to call attention.

  “That’s all right, gentlemen,” General Jiggs said, dryly sarcastic, “stand at ease.”

  They stood up from bending over the rocket launcher feed mechanism.

  “Hello, Dutch,” he said to CWO (W4) Cramer. “Long time, no see.”

  “Nice to see you again, General,” Cramer said.

  “If you had come by the office, Dutch,” the general said, “my aides have orders to throw rocks only at certain people. You’re not on their list.” He looked at Franklin, and then put out his hand to him.

  “You’re the one that went right from WOC to experienced expert, right?”

  Franklin looked very uncomfortable.

  “You think this thing is going to work, Mr. Franklin?” the general pursued.

  “Yes, sir. The problem the French had was aiming. Unless you’re lucky, it takes three, four rounds to get on target…”

  “You walk the rockets?” the general interrupted.

  “Yes, sir,” Franklin said, visibly less nervous now that he was talking about something he knew. “And if you only have six in the canister…”

  “What have we got here?” the general asked.

  “Twenty-seven,” Franklin said. “With luck, that gives you up to five good runs.”

  General Jiggs nodded his comprehension.

  “Where’s MacMillan?” General Jiggs asked. “Also known as ‘the Talking Head.’”

  “I thought you knew, sir,” Lowell said. The general shook his head. “He and Phil Parker took my plane to get the Felters,” Lowell said.

  “The way Captain Parker phrased his request was to ask if I minded if he ‘picked up a little dual time.’ In my innocence, I had pictured him as shooting touch-and-go’s at Laird.”

  “They should be back in a couple of hours, General,” Lowell said.

  “You got a minute, Lowell?” the general asked.

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  The general took Lowell’s arm and led him across the inflatable hangar, where they were alone.

  “There’s no good news and bad news,” General Jiggs said. “It’s all bad. I just made my pitch for you to Black. I got about as far as your name.”

  “I didn’t expect you to do that much, sir,” Lowell said. “But thank you.”

  “A senator’s wife! What the hell were you thinking about?”

  Lowell chuckled.

  “I don’t think it’s funny,” Jiggs said. “It’s not funny at all, goddamnit.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” Lowell said. “And I don’t think even Black could get me out of this one if he wanted to, and I have it on good authority that he doesn’t.”

  “There aren’t many majors,” Jiggs said, “who manage to get the Chief of Staff of the U.S. Army personally pissed at them.”

  “Can it be kept quiet until after New Year’s?” Lowell said. “Or is it getting to be pretty common knowledge?”

  “I don’t know,” Jiggs said. “Bellmon won’t talk about it.”

  “Bellmon’s all right,” Lowell said. “He’ll make a good general.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I think I’ll go to Germany for a while. For six months or a year, anyway. It’ll give me a chance to spend some time with my son.”

  “I’m sorry, Craig,” General Jiggs said. “I really am.”

  “I appreciate that,” Lowell said.

  “I don’t want you to sneak off this post,” Jiggs said, visibly emotional. “You understand what I’m saying?”

  Lowell smiled at him.

  “You can come out to Laird on New Year’s Day,” Lowell said. “And wave so long. But between now and then, I don’t want anybody, particularly the women, to know. I want the last party to be a good one.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Jiggs said. “But I think that’s wishful thinking. Men do the gossiping, not the women.”

  Lowell nodded and shrugged.

  “I’ll see you around before you go,” General Jiggs said.

  “I’ll be around,” Lowell said.

  Gener
al Jiggs nodded and suddenly turned and walked out of the inflatable hangar to his H-13H.

  Lowell walked back to the feed chute for the rocket launcher.

  “Made his pitch to Black about what?” Greer demanded. Lowell looked at him in surprise.

  “Interesting characteristic of these curved ceilings,” Greer said, “is that when somebody talks close to one side, somebody on the other side can hear everything.”

  “You just keep your goddamned mouth shut about what you think you heard,” Lowell said.

  “What I heard,” Greer said, “is that you’re getting thrown out as of 1 January.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “My wife got it from her mother,” Greer said.

  “I don’t know your wife or your mother-in-law,” Lowell said.

  “You don’t know any of the lieutenants or the warrants in Annex 1, either,” Franklin said, joining the conversation. “But they know all about the major who was run out of Washington on a rail.”

  “Honest to God, Bill?” Lowell asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Franklin said.

  “Well, you guys just keep your mouths shut. It’s done. It came down from the Chief of Staff himself. I just don’t want it to ruin the holidays.”

  “MacMillan knows,” Lieutenant Ed Greer said. “He knows why you asked him to pick up Major Felter. By the time they get to Washington, you can bet Parker will have heard.”

  “Let’s hope they have enough sense to keep their mouths shut,” Lowell said.

  “Ah, hell, yes,” Greer said.

  (Three)

  Washington National Airport

  The District of Columbia

  22 December 1958

  The first thing Sanford Felter did when MacMillan crawled out of the Aero Commander at Butler Aviation at Washington National Airport was take him aside to confide what he somewhat bitterly described as the “final chapter in the Lowell sexual saga.”

  “I went to Black,” Felter said.

  “And?”

  “He told me this was the one time I should remember that I was a major in the army,” Felter said.