The Lieutenants

by W. E. B Griffin

  She probably thought, he decided, that he was telling her a lie, too, about having a lot of money.

  The truth of the matter was that he didn’t give a damn if she had been raised in a cave by pig farmers. And he hadn’t exactly been honest with her, either, when he’d told her his mother was sick, and that that was the reason she couldn’t meet the plane and her daughter-in-law. His mother didn’t even know he was married. He had enough problems as it was, without having his mother flip her lid and causing trouble.

  He had not completed an overseas tour, so he was eligible for one when he graduated from Basic Officer’s Course. With a little bit of luck, he would be sent to Japan or Alaska, someplace where he could take her with him. But he could also be sent to Korea where you couldn’t take dependents, or back to Germany, maybe even to the Constab. You couldn’t have German nationals as dependents in Germany.

  She might find herself as alone here as she had been in Germany.

  The thing to do was say nothing that was liable to upset her. Especially now, just before the baby was to be born.

  (Seven)

  Mrs. Ilse von Greiffenberg Lowell was delivered of a seven-pound four-ounce son at the U.S. Army Hospital, Fort Knox, Kentucky, two days before her husband was graduated, third in his class, from Basic Officer’s Course.

  Ilse was so happy that she was afraid something would go wrong, she told her husband. She was so happy that she wept when a sterling silver teething cup was delivered to the hospital with a card reading, “Love, Mother Pretier.” She didn’t suspect at all that it had been sent by her husband.

  All she cared was that the baby was healthy and that Craig wasn’t going to be sent overseas, the way Phil Parker was. Craig had been assigned to the Armor School as an instructor in the Tank Gunnery Division. They were sending Phil all the way to Japan.

  The child was christened at post chapel number three following the rite prescribed by the Episcopal Church. It was necessary to have two godfathers and one godmother. Because it was of obvious importance to Ilse, and because he didn’t know anyone else he could ask, he called Roxy MacMillan and explained his problem. Roxy said that she would be delighted, and so would Mac, but when they got to the chapel, she said that Mac had been called away. So Peter-Paul Lowell’s godfathers had the same name. His godfathers were Lt. Philip Sheridan Parker IV and Colonel (Retired) Philip Sheridan Parker III. Phil’s father had come down to Knox from Kansas for the graduation parade. He remembered Knox, he said, when it had six buildings and four outhouses, and he wanted to see how it had changed.

  Colonel Parker stayed with the Bellmons, and when Bob Bellmon told him of his concern about Phil’s roommate, Parker said that he had actually rather liked Lowell, but in any event it was all over now.

  (Eight)

  Fort Knox, Kentucky

  18 October 1947

  First Lieutenant Sanford Felter returned from the U.S. Army Military Advisory Group, Greece, with two Green Hornets for his outstanding administrative skill (which was fairly routine for a first john who had spent his entire tour with one of the divisions,) and with the Legion of Merit, which was unusual. He was also decorated by the Greek government with the Order of Knight of St. Gregory, First Class.

  In the Comments section of his last USAMAG-G efficiency report, he was described as “a small in stature, erect officer who has constantly demonstrated a grasp of military affairs beyond that expected of an officer of his grade and experience. He is unhesitatingly recommended for command in the grade of captain in combat. However, this officer has indicated a preference for a career in military intelligence and in the opinion of the rating officer would make an outstanding intelligence officer.” The efficiency report was “enthusiastically endorsed” by Lt. Gen. James Van Fleet, USAMAG-G Commanding General.

  On the morning of his fifth day in the apartment over the Old Warsaw Bakery on the corner of Aldine Street and Chancellor Avenue in Newark, N.J., the mailman delivered a thick manila envelope, registered, return receipt requested. It contained a hundred copies of Paragraph 33, Department of the Army General Order 101:

  33. FIRST LIEUTENANT SANFORD T. FELTER, 0-357861, INFANTRY, Transient Officer Detachment, Camp Kilmer, N.J., is placed on temporary duty and Will Proceed to U.S. Army Language School, the Presidio, San Francisco, Calif, to undergo Course No. 49–002 (Greek Language). Off will report no later than 5 January 1948. Upon completion of course of instruction, Off is further placed on TDY and WP to the Infantry School, Fort Benning, Ga., to undergo Course No. 49–444 (Advanced Inf Off Course). Upon Completion of course of instruction, Off is transferred in grade and WP to the U.S. Army Counterintelligence Center, Camp Holabird, 1019 Dundalk Avenue, Baltimore 19, Md. to undergo Course No. 49–101 (Classified). Upon reporting to Fort Holabird, Off will be detailed Military Intelligence and all further personnel actions will be under the Assistant Chief of Staff, G-2, Hq, Dept of the Army. Off will be in per diem status while attending the Army Language School. Off will be in Temporary Change of Station status while attending the Inf School. Assgmt to Fort Holabird is PCS. Off auth tvl by private auto. Off is auth to be accompanied by dependents at no expense to govt to the Presidio and the Infantry Center. Tvl of dependents and household goods to Ft Holabird is auth from Newark, N.J.

  FOR THE CHIEF OF STAFF

  Edward Witsell

  Major General, The Adjutant General

  When he knew what his orders were, and after he had been home two weeks, he and Sharon loaded all their clothes in the Buick Super and started out for the Presidio, via Fort Knox, where Craig Lowell was stationed.

  Craig and Ilse and the baby (Peter-Paul, like the candy bar, and called P.P. for a couple of reasons) were living in a converted barracks near Godman Field and driving an enormous old yellow Packard convertible. Despite the car (which was, after all, nearly six years old), Sandy wondered if maybe Craig had just been telling stories about having a lot of money. Their quarters were furnished with strictly GI furniture, and Ilse didn’t seem to be expensively dressed. But then the very first night when they were playing gin rummy and the pencil broke, Sandy went to the GI desk to get another. When he opened the drawer he found five uncashed paychecks and a statement from the Morgan Guaranty Trust in New York showing a checking balance of $11,502.85 and was a little ashamed of himself for doubting Craig.

  He also saw a signature block on a training schedule for the Department of Tactics. Craig was a gunnery instructor in the Tank Gunnery Division of the Department of Tactics. The signature block was:

  Robert F. Bellmon

  Lt. Colonel, Armor

  Deputy Department Commander

  He asked Craig what he looked like, and Craig described him.

  “Why do you ask?” Craig then asked.

  “I know him,” Sandy said. “I was—” he stopped. “He’s the officer I asked for the Greece assignment.”

  “That sounds like him, the chickenshit sonofabitch,” Craig said, bitterly. “He’s prick enough to let a dumb lieutenant volunteer to get his balls shot off.”

  Sharon and Ilse were embarrassed at the outburst, and especially at the language, and Sandy let it drop.

  The next night, however, while Craig was off running a night-fire exercise (he would have liked to have seen that, but Craig told him that with Chickenshit Bob around, there was no chance), he took Sharon to the movies (Ilse didn’t like to put P. P. in the officer’s club nursery and begged off). When they came out, after he’d thought it over carefully, he decided it was the right and proper thing to do to pay a courtesy call on Colonel Bellmon.

  Lt. Col. Bellmon had been assigned quarters near the parade ground on the main post, not far at all from the theater. They were two-story brick houses, looking like something from an Andy Hardy movie. Middletown, U.S.A.

  Sharon was a little nervous. She really had no experience with the army at all, just the two dances she’d gone to at West Point. And the truth of the matter was that the only confidence that Sandy had was in the trai
ning he’d received at West Point in “Customs of the Service” as a yearling. Calls were required of junior officers upon their seniors when reporting for duty. Cards, one corner turned up, were deposited on a tray provided for that purpose in the foyer of quarters. Calls were encouraged, but not required, upon senior officers with whom one was acquainted, when visiting officially, or unofficially, other posts and stations.

  As he walked up the concrete walk between the closely cropped sections of lawn, Sandy suddenly remembered the rest of it. Wives were expected to wear gloves and hats. Sharon had a hat on, but no gloves. Well, it was too late to do anything about that.

  He stood under the porch light and took a card from his wallet. It was a little smeared. He’d bought a hundred of them, but the only time he had ever used one was to put it on the mailbox at the bakery so he would be sure to get his mail.

  But there was nothing he could do about that, either. He turned up the corner of the card the way you were supposed to and rang the bell.

  A tall, attractive woman wearing a turtleneck sweater and slacks answered the door.

  “Hello,” she said cheerfully.

  “Good evening,” Felter replied and thrust the card at her. She smiled, and he saw tolerance in the smile. He was being gently laughed at.

  “You’re reporting in, Lieutenant…” She read the name. “Felter?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m passing through. I just wanted to pay my respects to Colonel Bellmon.”

  She turned. “Bob!” It was a shout. “Come in, please. I’m Mrs. Bellmon.”

  They stood awkwardly in the foyer. Colonel Bellmon, a plaid sweater over his khaki shirt, a glass in his hand, came into the foyer. For a moment, Sandy was afraid he wouldn’t remember him. Or wouldn’t want to.

  “Felter,” Colonel Bellmon finally said. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, come in,” Bellmon said. “I’m glad to see you. You’ve been assigned to Knox?”

  “No, sir,” Sandy said. “Sir, may I present my wife?”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Felter,” Bellmon said. “I gather you’ve introduced yourself to Barbara? Barbara, Lieutenant Felter was in on Task Force Parker.”

  The women shook hands. Barbara Bellmon looked at Felter with new interest.

  “You say you’ve been assigned here?” Bellmon said, leading them into a well-furnished living room. There was a silver-framed photograph on the mantelpiece of Major General Peterson K. Waterford sitting erect on a horse.

  “No, sir, I’m just passing through. I’m on my way to the Presidio to the Language School.”

  “Well, I’m glad you stopped in to see me,” Bellmon said, and he sounded perfectly sincere. “I often wondered what happened to you in Greece.”

  “It was a very interesting assignment, sir,” Felter said. “That’s why I came. To thank you.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Bellmon said. He looked thoughtful. “I’m really not just saying that, Felter. I’ve often wondered about it. The truth of the matter is, I had learned an hour or so before I talked to you that my father-in-law had just dropped dead.” He gestured toward the framed photograph on the mantelpiece. “I wondered if I was in full possession of my faculties, is what I’m saying.”

  “I think it was a good assignment, sir,” Felter said.

  “And now you’re going to the Presidio. And from there, no doubt, to Dundalk High?”

  It took Felter a moment to catch up on that, to remember that the U.S. Army Counterintelligence School was located at 1019 Dundalk Avenue, Baltimore 19, Maryland.

  “Yes, sir,” Felter said. “Via the Infantry School. Advanced Officer’s Course.”

  “Fine, fine,” Colonel Bellmon said. Mrs. Bellmon arrived surprisingly quickly, Sandy thought, with a tea tray. That made him feel better. If her husband were really not glad to see him, there would be no tea tray.

  “And what brings you to Knox? Certainly not just to see me.”

  “No, sir, I have a friend here,” Felter said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Lieutenant Craig Lowell, sir,” Felter said. “I believe he works for you.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Felter,” Bellmon said. “Until you said that, I had an image of you as one more responsible member of the Long Gray Line. You met him in Greece, I gather?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Duke is not one of Bob’s favorite lieutenants, I’m afraid,” Barbara Bellmon said, laughing.

  “He has managed to antagonize just about everybody on the post,” Bellmon said. “Me, most of all.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Felter said, realizing that it didn’t surprise him. He regretted bringing up Lowell’s name. “Can I ask what he’s done?”

  “What Bob cannot stand is being outwitted,” Barbara Bellmon said, laughing. “It destroys his image of himself.”

  “I can’t stand being mocked,” Bellmon said. “I’m a soldier, and I don’t like to see officers mock the army.” Then he softened. “But you’re right, honey, that bastard has outwitted me.”

  “Tell him what he did,” Barbara Bellmon said. “You’re making it sound as if he ran off with army funds.”

  “Do you know about the medal?” Bellmon asked. “The one he got the Greeks to give him?”

  “Yes, sir,” Felter said. “I was there when he earned it.”

  “You were? What’s it for?”

  “He assumed command of a Greek company after the Greek officers were killed,” Sandy said. “And, although he was pretty badly wounded, he kept the communists from breaking through our lines.”

  “You know that for a fact?” Bellmon asked, sharply.

  “Yes, sir. I was with the relief column.”

  “Goddamn it,” Bellmon said. “He did it again. When I asked him where he got it, he said it was for his contribution to Greco-American relations.”

  Barbara Bellmon laughed heartily.

  “Goddamnit, that’s not funny,” Bellmon said.

  “I think it’s hilarious,” Barbara said.

  “It is not funny to mock decorations for valor,” Bellmon said. “That’s not funny at all.”

  “You’re being unfair, Bob,” Barbara Bellmon said. “Tell them the whole story.”

  “OK,” Bellmon said. “I’ll tell you my assessment of your friend, Felter, and you correct me where I go wrong. Before he was assigned to me, he had already earned himself a reputation as a smart-ass while he was in Basic Officer’s Course. The general is very proud of his Packard automobile. A yellow convertible. So your friend shows up in a bigger, fancier yellow Packard convertible. You can imagine how the general liked that.”

  “I thought it was funny,” Barbara Bellmon said.

  “The general didn’t,” Bellmon said. “And neither did I. If you think about it, that’s a pretty expensive little mockery. I hate to think what his monthly payments were on that Packard.”

  “Sir?” Felter said, hesitantly, and Bellmon looked at him. “Sir, Lowell is well off. I mean, he’s rich. He can afford a Packard or anything else he wants to drive.”

  “Oh,” Bellmon said. “Well, that explains a lot, I suppose.”

  “Tell him about the medal,” Barbara Bellmon said.

  “Well, the general passed the word that he wanted your friend off the post ninety seconds after he finished Basic Officer’s Course. He was going to send him to Korea. He was assigned to the Department of Tactics, and I put him to work as a gunnery instructor, having found out that he didn’t know anything at all about tank gunnery. I figured that just might humble him.”

  “And it turns out, Lieutenant,” Barbara Bellmon said, “that he seems to have some mysterious, otherworldy ability to control projectiles in flight. He wills a hit. He promptly became the darling of the enlisted men, those old sergeants who think second lieutenants are useless. His students have constantly done much better than any other lieutenant’s students. But that’s still not the story of the medal.”


  “But it is of the sergeants,” Bellmon said. “Now, certainly, I don’t hate all Germans. There are good Germans and I’m the first to admit it. But the facts are that the German girls who marry Americans are, by and large, looking for a meal ticket. So far as I know, Mrs. Lowell is a lady in every respect.”

  “I’m glad you said that,” Barbara Bellmon said, icily.

  “I like Ilse very much,” Sharon said, suddenly. It was the first time she had opened her mouth. “I like her and I feel sorry for her. She lost her father in the war, and here she is all alone with a baby.”

  “I like her, too,” Barbara Bellmon said. “What little I’ve seen of her. Sometimes, Bob, you make me sick.”

  Felter picked up on that. It meant acceptance of them by Mrs. Bellmon. Otherwise she would have kept her mouth shut and told her husband off when they were alone.

  “Be that as it may,” Bellmon went on, obviously uncomfortable, “she is an officer’s lady, and she is not supposed to find her friends from among the enlisted wives. And second lieutenants are not supposed to run around with the sergeants, either.”

  “Put yourself in that girl’s shoes, Bob,” Barbara Bellmon said. “How would you like to go to a party and have all the women make it pretty clear to you that they think you’re a prostitute who latched on to an American meal ticket?”

  “How terrible for her!” Sharon said.

  “It’s your job, Barbara,” Bellmon said, “to stop that sort of thing.”

  “When I had the chance, I did what I could,” Barbara Bellmon replied.

  “The point is, she didn’t give you the chance, because she didn’t go to officer’s ladies meetings. And your friend, Felter, never went to the officer’s club or to official parties.”

  “And socialized with the enlisted men,” Felter said. He wasn’t surprised to hear that. In Ioannina, he could get away with that because of the circumstances. He could not get away with it in a garrison situation, where the customs of the service, the rigid distinctions between officers and enlisted men, were rigidly observed.