The Lieutenants
Page 23
“I don’t think you’ll be needed today, fellas,” Major Bellmon said. He walked quickly away. He sensed that the tankers were about to be hysterical, and he didn’t want to be in the position of having to make them stop. He walked to his jeep, got behind the wheel, and drove out to where the tank had fallen.
The tank cannon had been in its travel position: turned to the rear and locked in place over the engine compartment. Some force, either of being jerked out of the airplane, or the opening shock of the cargo chutes, had torn it free from the mount. When the tank had hit, the high-tensile-strength steel in the gun barrel had been bent in a “U.”
It was too much for Major Bellmon. As he reached for the jeep’s ignition switch, he started to snicker, then to giggle, and finally he laughed out loud. It took him a long time to get the jeep started and moving.
“Get on the horn, Tommy,” he said to the driver, as the jeep turned onto the dirt road leading back to Fort Bragg. “And tell them we’re on our way back in.”
The driver turned to the radio, mounted above the right rear wheel well, and communicated with the Airborne Board.
“Major,” he said, in a moment. “The post commander wants to see you as soon as possible.”
“The post commander?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you think somebody already told him that I was laughing?” Major Bellmon asked.
Post headquarters was in one of a line of three-story brick buildings that Bellmon remembered from before the war as enlisted men’s barracks. He parked his jeep, told the driver to get himself a cup of coffee, and entered the building from the rear.
The commanding general’s office overlooked the post theater and senior officer’s brick quarters. Bellmon, after announcing himself to the general’s secretary, peered out the window of the anteroom to see what was playing at the movies, convinced that it would be at least fifteen minutes before the general would see him.
“Come on in, Bob,” the general said, behind him. That was unusual, too. Normally an aide would tell him that the general would see him. The general did not welcome visitors personally. “Where the hell have you been anyway?” the general asked, touching his arm as they entered the office.
Bellmon started to snicker.
“Something funny?”
“Forgive me, sir,” Bellmon said. “They were dropping an M24. It landed right on the tube, and bent it into a ‘U.’ I guess I have a perverse sense of humor.”
The general didn’t reply to that.
“The reason I asked, Bob, is that you had a call from the chief of staff, and nobody could find you.”
“Sir,” Bellmon said, “if I’ve caused you any inconvenience…”
“Not my chief of staff, Bob. The chief of staff.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“When he couldn’t get you, he got me. It is thus my sad duty, Bob, to inform you that Major General Peterson K. Waterford died suddenly at 1500 hours, German time, yesterday. We were old friends. I’m sorry.”
“Do you know what happened, sir?”
“Heart attack,” the general said. “Playing polo against the French. At his age.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“I thought perhaps you would like to tell Barbara yourself. I’d be happy to…”
“I’ll tell her, sir,” Bellmon said. “Thank you.”
“I’ve alerted Caroline. I thought I would give you a few minutes with Barbara and then send her in.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“Well, I guess he went the way he would have wanted to go. Playing polo.”
“I was thinking just that, sir.”
“My aide is laying on your plane reservations, and he’ll be in touch. I’ll come up for the funeral, of course.”
“Thank you, again, General,” Bellmon said.
“He was a little unusual, Porky Waterford,” the general said, and his voice broke, and there were tears in his eyes, “But goddamn him, he was one hell of a soldier!”
(Two)
The president of the Airborne Board walked into Major Bellmon’s small office to find him standing with a coffee cup in his hand and looking out of the window.
“Bob, I called your quarters and they said you were here. First of all, I’m terribly sorry; and secondly, I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bellmon said. “Caroline, the chief of staff’s wife, is with her. She’s something like an adopted aunt to her…wanted me out of the house. And then there was a call from the Air Corps, General Deese, who was a classmate of General Waterford. He’s sending his plane. He insisted we take it. So I had time to kill, and this seemed to be a good way to kill it.”
“Anything we can do, of course. I’ve sent Janice over to your place.”
“A soldier’s death, sort of,” Bellmon said. “Playing polo. Polo!”
“A soldier should die with the last bullet fired in the last battle,” the colonel said. “I guess this is close. Why don’t we have a drink?”
“I’ve got the Ranger honor graduates coming in,” Bellmon said. “I don’t want to breathe booze all over them.”
“I’ll take them,” the Airborne Board president volunteered.
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather handle it. It’s either that, or look out the window.”
“I understand,” the president of the Board said. “However, if you change your mind, I’ll be in the building most of the afternoon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I understand the M24 drop was a failure,” the president said. “Any ideas?”
“I think we better find a better way of air-landing our tanks,” Major Bellmon said.
“Let me have your thoughts in a memo, Bob,” he said. “When all this is over, of course.”
“Yes. sir.”
Bellmon’s secretary, a civilian woman whose services he shared with three other officers, put her head in his door and knocked on the door frame. Bellmon looked at her.
“You’ve got five lieutenants to see you, Major.”
“I’ll get out of your hair, Bob,” the president said. “Again, I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bellmon said. He nodded at his secretary. “Send the first one in, please.”
First Lieutenant Sanford Felter, Infantry, United States Army, his cap tucked under his upper left arm, marched into Major Robert F. Bellmon’s office, stopped three feet from his desk, saluted crisply, and announced: “Lieutenant Felter reporting to Major Bellmon as ordered, sir.”
Bellmon smiled as he returned the salute, but there was no recognition on his face or in his eyes.
“Sit down, Felter,” he said, indicating a straight-backed, upholstered chair. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black, sir, please,” Felter said.
Bellmon looked much better than the last time Felter had seen him. His face and his body had filled out, and the unhealthy brightness was gone from his eyes. Bellmon filled a china cup from a restaurant-style coffee pot and walked around his desk and handed it to Felter.
“Congratulations, obviously, are in order,” Bellmon said. “I was nowhere near being the honor graduate when I went through the course. As a matter of fact, I was way down the numerical list.”
“One of my classmates, sir,” Felter said, “developed a theory that small people, having less weight to carry around, should be handicapped.”
Bellmon laughed, and looked at Felter with new interest. That wasn’t the sort of remark he expected from a young leiutenant. It wasn’t flip, or arrogant, but self-confident.
“He has a point,” Bellmon said, chuckling. “What I’m going to do, now, Felter, is take a quick look at your record. I’m telling you that, because I don’t want you to think I’m waging psychological warfare by making you wait for me as I do it. I just didn’t have a chance to do it before.”
“Yes, sir,” Felter said.
Bellmon found the service record interesti
ng. Even fascinating. He would never have suspected that this little man, this little Jew, had ever marched in the Long Gray Line. But there it was, the first entry on his service recrod:
1Jan45 Hon Disch f/Corps of Cadets USMA (Class of 46) for purp of accpt comm.
2Jan45 Comm 2ndLt Inf AUS Asgd Trans Off Det, USMA West Point NY
2Jan45-19Jan45 En Route 40 US Armd Div, APO 40, NYNY
19Jan 45 40MP Co, 40 US Arm Div (Dy as Asst O-in-C POW Interrogation Div)
23Apr45 Ofc of Mil Govt For Bavaria (Dy as Captured Documents Evaluation Off)
3Jul45 Prom 1st Lt, Inf AUS DOR 1Jul45 (Compl 6 mos satis comm svc)
17Aug45-40ct45 En Route ZI (Incl 40 Dys Ret from OS lv)
50ct45 Basic Inf Off Crs, USA Inf School, Ft Benning Ga
2Apr46 Dist Grad, Basic Off Crs USA Inf School Ft Benning Ga
21Apr46 Qual as Prchst, USA Inf School, Ft Benning Ga
23Apr46 USA Ranger School, Ft Bragg NC
2Jul46 Honor Grad USA Ranger School, Ft Bragg,
NC
“I see you were with Hell’s Circus,” Bellmon said. Felter was not wearing the division patch on his right shoulder, as his wartime service entitled him to do.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you ever happen to meet General Waterford?” Bellmon asked.
“One time, sir, for about fifteen minutes.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Lieutenant,” Bellmon said. “that General Waterford died yesterday. Playing polo, of all things.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Felter said.
Bellmon had a sudden urge to challenge this self-confident little Jew.
“Why do you say that?” he demanded. “If you only saw him once for fifteen minutes, why would you have any feeling about his death, one way or the other?”
“I suppose I was considering what his loss means to the army, sir,” Felter said. “General Waterford was recognized to be one of the better large armored force commanders.”
Bellmon nodded, impressed that the reply had come without thinking, that Felter had not been offering condolences to curry favor.
“Yes, he was,” he said. “I’m curious to hear your plans for your career, Felter. Do you plan to stay? Are you going to apply for regular army?”
“Yes, sir,” Felter said.
“Since you left the Academy, you don’t have a college degree. What do you plan to do about that?”
“I am enrolled in the Extension Department of the University of Chicago, sir. I hope to have my degree in a few months.”
“You’re talking about getting a degree by correspondence? Through the mail?”
“Yes, sir. I’m going for a degree in political science.”
“Commendable,” Bellmon said, dryly. The little bastard had an answer for everything. Then he suddenly realized that he was being hard on him for no good reason. Because he was a Jew? Or because his own father-in-law, who he really liked, maybe even loved, had just dropped dead, and he was upset by that?
“Felter, I apologize,” Bellmon said. “I’ve been picking on you. For what it’s worth, I have just had a death in the family. That’s no excuse for picking on you, but that’s what happened. I’m sorry.”
Felter did not reply.
“Lieutenant,” Bellmon said, smiling at him, “in token of the U.S. Army’s profound appreciation of the splendid showing you have made at John Wayne High School, also known as the U.S. Army Ranger School, an effort, a real effort, will be made to give you your choice of assignment. There are about twenty-five different vacancies.”
“Yes, sir,” Felter said.
“You seem neither outraged nor amused at my somewhat irreverent reference to the Ranger School,” Bellmon said.
“I’ve heard it called that before, sir,” Felter said.
“And what was your reaction? Amusement, or outrage at the mocking of the sacred?”
“Amusement, sir,” Felter said. He ran his hand over his closely cropped hair, which was already starting to thin. The movement served to shade his face. Bellmon looked at him very closely.
“And are you amused now, Felter?” Bellmon asked, and there was ice in his voice. He was furious with himself for not having recognized Felter immediately.
“Sir?”
“Do you find this situation amusing?”
“I don’t quite know what you mean, sir,” Felter said.
“You know precisely what I mean, Lieutenant. We have met before, haven’t we?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You did not elect to remind me,” Bellmon said. “May I ask why?”
“I was offering the major the option of remembering me,” Felter said. He paused, then added: “Or not.”
“What happened to you when we got back?” Bellmon asked, after a moment. He ran his hand nervously over his head.
“I was ordered not to discuss Task Force Parker,” Felter said. “And then I was sent to Munich.”
“Did you hear what happened to me?”
“I heard the major was hospitalized,” Felter said.
“In the nut ward,” Bellmon said. “Did you hear that?”
Felter just perceptibly nodded his head.
“Did you elect not to remind me of our previous meeting because you believe I was temporarily bereft of my senses at the time?”
“I have examined the Katyn material,” Felter said. “I believe the Russians executed the Polish prisoners.”
“Where did you examine it?” Bellmon asked, surprised.
“The Polish government-in-exile, what used to be the Polish government-in-exile, presented it to Congress. The hearings are a matter of public record.”
“But you took the trouble…” Bellmon said.
“I was interested,” Felter said.
“And have you discussed either the Katyn business or Task Force Parker with anyone?”
“Not until today, sir.”
“Not even with your wife?”
“No, sir. My wife is a sensitive woman.”
“Similarly, Lieutenant Felter, I have not discussed what happened with anyone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was reduced in grade shortly after the war ended, Felter. That might have been because I was too young for the grade I held. I have been led to believe that my name is number fourteen on the next promotion list to lieutenant colonel. I will still be a rather young lieutenant colonel. Does that suggest anything to you?”
“It would suggest that there is no question concerning the major’s stability,” Felter said. “Or his discretion.”
“There are some things, Felter, which should not be discussed unless one is absolutely sure of the audience.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You and I are not alone, Felter,” Bellmon said.
“Yes, sir.”
“You demonstrate a rather unusual understanding for someone of your rank and length of service,” Bellmon said. He let that sink in. Then he smiled. “You may even be able to grasp what a crock of shit the ranger philosophy is.”
Felter smiled.
“Well, I owe you one, anyway, for keeping me from getting blown away the day I was liberated. Tell me what you’ve been thinking about your career.”
“I don’t know quite what to say, sir,” Felter said.
“Where do you want to be twenty years from now? In 1966? By then you should be a major, possibly even a lieutenant colonel. Battalion exec? What?”
“Sir,” Felter said. “I think I would be suited to be an intelligence officer.”
“Why?”
“I have a flair for languages. I speak German and Polish and Russian. And a little French.”
“Russian?”
“My mother’s family, sir.”
“There is more to intelligence than linguistics,” Bellmon said. He had just realized that while he had planned to kill some time by making the expected remarks to a bunch of dumb lieutenants, he was now faced with the opportunity to offer some genuine advice to a lie
utenant who was obviously anything but dumb, and to whom, in fact, he owed his life.
“Yes, sir, I understand that,” Felter said.
“The truth of the matter, Felter, is that most of the good intelligence officers in the last war—and I would suppose in all wars—were civilians in uniform. The mental training which makes for a good regular officer in peacetime is not often valuable in the intelligence business. What I’m saying, I suppose, is that we need very bright people to be intelligence officers, but that there is no place in the peacetime army for a bona fide intellectual.”
“Sir, are we going to have a peacetime army?”
“Take that further, Felter,” Bellmon said. “Explain yourself.”
“I saw in the newspaper last week that we’ve taken over for the English in Greece, sir,” Felter said. “That’s hardly garrison duty.”
There was a moment’s silence as Bellmon sifted through a manila folder on the desk before him.
TELECON MEMO
Record of Telecon Between G-1 This Hq and Office of the Adjutant General, War Dept (Col J C McKee & Lt Col Kenneth Oates)
Colonel Oates stated that the Chief of Staff had approved a request from the Commanding General, United States Army Military Advisory Group, (USAMAG-G) for 86 company grade combat arms officers to serve as advisors to the Royal Greek Army. If possible, such officers should have a knowledge of the Greek language, combat experience, and be willing to serve a minimum tour of one year in hardship conditions. A levy of two officers has been laid upon Fort Bragg (including all subordinate units). Col. Oates further states that he must have the names of selected officers within 24 hours. Volunteers will proceed as soon as possible via mil air to Frankfurt, Germany, for transshipment to Athens.
“Where else in the world do you see trouble spots, Felter?” Major Bellmon asked. “Just for conversation, of course.”
“Sir, I think I’m talking too much,” Felter said.
“Where else, Lieutenant?” Bellmon said. “If you haven’t learned by now, it’s high time you did, that when you open your mouth, you better be prepared to finish what you started to say.”
“Yes, sir,” Felter said. “India, sir. With their independence. Indochina, against French colonialism. China, where the communists are probably going to win. That may have implications for Indochina, too. Korea. The Philippines. Palestine, I don’t want to forget that.”