The Lieutenants

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Yes, sir, I am,” Lowell said.

  “You felt someone was a coward? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I suspected someone was a coward,” Lowell said. “Another officer was forced to make that judgment.”

  “In what way?”

  “In order to complete his mission, the officer to whom I refer—a West Pointer, by the way—felt it necessary to remove his cowardly commanding officer. Who was also, come to think of it, a West Pointer.”

  “What do you mean, remove?”

  “He cut him down with a Thompson is what I mean, Colonel,” Lowell said, very simply.

  “I think,” Lt. Col. Bellmon said, after a long moment in which he decided that Lowell was telling the truth and that the situation was about to get out of control, “that we should have a nightcap on the porch, gentlemen.”

  Later that night, sleeping on the fold-down bed in the living room of Lowell’s apartment, Sharon softly asked Sandy if what Lowell had said about one officer shooting, murdering, another officer in cold blood was true.

  “Yes, it was,” the Mouse said. “But I don’t think Craig did himself any good by telling those officers that story. Those things happen, honey, but you just don’t talk about them.” He had a mental image of the Thompson bucking in his hands, of Captain Watson tumbling down the mountainside.

  Sandy Felter suddenly rolled on his side and grabbed Sharon and pulled her to him, and despite her protests that they would wake the baby and Craig and Ilse and that she didn’t want to, not here, he took her. He had never done anything like that before, and he was ashamed of himself, even if Sharon, afterward, thought it was kind of funny and teased him about not drinking any more brandy.

  (Ten)

  Shortly after the dinner at Lt. Col. Robert Bellmon’s quarters, Second Lieutenant Craig W. Lowell was transferred from the Tank Gunnery Division of the Armor School to the U.S. Army Armor Board. The Board, which was on, but not subordinate to, Fort Knox, was the agency which tested new tanks and other armored force vehicles.

  Lowell was now viewed by the establishment at Fort Knox in a different light. He was no longer a smart-ass guardhouse lawyer who’d managed to somehow wangle a commission and had thereafter thumbed his nose at the army. Despite his indiscreet remarks at the Bellmons’ party, he was a young man from a very prominent family whose potential had been recognized by no one less than Porky Waterford himself. In addition, he was married to the daughter of a German aristocrat who had been a colonel and an old friend of Waterford.

  And Porky’s judgment about the boy’s potential had certainly been vindicated. The medal the Greeks had given him was the second highest one they awarded. It was understandable that a young man who had commanded a company in combat would tend to be a little bored with Basic Officer’s Course and would say things he really shouldn’t have said. Under the circumstances, it certainly spoke well for him that he had done so well in Basic Officer’s Course, graduating third, with a 98.4 grade average.

  Bellmon had a little chat about Lowell with Colonel Kenneth J. McLean, president of the Armor Board. McLean had not been at the dinner at which Lowell had made the speech, but he had been in North Africa with General Waterford. Colonel McLean said he could always use a bright young buck like that. The commanding general approved the transfer.

  Lowell was assigned as an assistant project officer on the 90 mm high-velocity tube project for the M26. The original M26, which was to eventually replace the M4A4 as the standard tank, had come with a 75 mm cannon. The army had learned a healthy respect for the German 88 mm cannon, and a U.S. 90 mm high-velocity tank tube was designed and manufactured and was now under test by the Armor Board. If successful, it would make the M26 the most powerfully armed tank in the world.

  The testing was rather simple in nature. The tube was fired under all possible conditions to see what broke. At that point ordnance engineers, military and civilian, came up with a fix.

  Three M26 tanks, each under a lieutenant and crewed by senior noncoms, were under the general supervision of a lieutenant colonel, who handled the engineering and the other paperwork. Lowell became one of the three lieutenants.

  The other lieutenants had heard that the president of the Board had requested Lowell’s transfer from the school. That spoke well of him. So far as the noncoms were concerned, a second john with a CIB who had been an enlisted man was hardly your standard candy-ass shavetail, and Lowell’s subsequent behavior (no chickenshit) and performance (that sonofabitch really knows how to fire a tube) confirmed their judgment of him.

  The officers’ ladies of the Armor Board, having heard that Colonel McLean had requested Lowell’s transfer from the school, and having seen Mrs. Lowell together with Mrs. Bellmon at the commissary and at lunch with her in the officer’s club, concluded that Ilse Lowell was the exception that proved the rule about frauleins; and they went out of their way to welcome her to Board social activities.

  Lowell himself was delighted with his new duties. The M26s he’d been firing at the school had had to be treated with the utmost care to prevent breakdowns. During their four-week course of instruction, each tank crew in training had fired precisely thirty-two rounds of 75 mm ammunition. It was incredibly expensive and tough on the tube itself, and every round had to count. The absolute reverse was true at the Board. He and his crew picked up a tank at the maintenance building in the morning, drove the sonofabitch as fast as it would go out to the firing ranges and the torture-rack testing area, and then fired as many (sometimes twice as many) rounds in a day as he had fired in the whole four-week course at the school.

  One of their problems was the necessity to constantly replace the M4 tank hulks and the worn-out trucks used for targets. They literally blew them into little pieces.

  For lunch, they would pile into jeeps and three-quarter-ton trucks and drive five miles through the woods to the Fort Knox Rod and Gun Club for hamburgers and beer. There they’d fill out the forms that Testing Evaluation Division gave them to gain data on the M26A2 (90 mm high-velocity tube).

  They were generally finished for the day at half past two or a quarter to three; and by half past four, Lowell had returned to his apartment. He took a shower, played with P.P., maybe fooled around with Ilse a little, and then they went together to the commissary or the PX, and maybe took in a movie. P.P. was a good baby. You could take him to the movies, and you never heard a peep out of him.

  Craig actually looked forward with regret to his coming release from active duty, at the completion of his two years of commissioned service. He had to get out, of course. For one thing, it made absolutely no sense to stay in. If he stayed, they wouldn’t let him stay at the Board. They’d send his ass overseas and make him officer in charge of counting mess kits or something. He wasn’t even sure he could have stayed if he wanted to. The army was cutting back on the number of reserve officers on active duty. The only way to stay was to go regular army; and to do that, you needed a college degree.

  What he had, he realized, was a very pleasant way to spend the last six months of his service. He should be, and was, grateful for that.

  On a Thursday afternoon, when he had about two months to go, Colonel McLean was waiting for him at the door of the cavernous maintenance building, when he came barrel-assing back to the barn from a day on the range.

  He signaled the driver to stop when McLean put up his hand. He climbed down from the turret and signaled for the driver to go park the beast.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” he said to Colonel McLean. McLean put his hand on his arm.

  “There’s been some bad news for you, Craig,” McLean said. “Your grandfather’s passed on. Your cousin Porter Craig telephoned.”

  It wasn’t like the school where those chickenshit bastards wouldn’t even let him go to New York to meet Ilse. By the time he got back to the barn, the Board had really taken care of him. He had leave orders and reservations on the plane. Mrs. McLean was in the apartment, Ilse had their bags packed, and all he had to
do was take a shower and get dressed and go down and get in the colonel’s car. That way he wouldn’t have to worry about his car while he was gone. “Let us know when you’re coming back, and we’ll have somebody to meet you.”

  Mrs. McLean insisted on going into the airport with them, carrying the plastic bag filled with diapers and stuff for P.P. that Ilse normally carried over her shoulder.

  “I have reservations,” he said. “Two, round trip to New York. The name is Lowell.”

  “Oh, Craig, I didn’t think about money!” Ilse said. Mrs. McLean started to open her purse.

  Lowell handed over his Air Travel card.

  “First class,” he said to the reservations clerk.

  Ilse wanted to say something; but with Mrs. McLean there, she didn’t.

  “Do you have enough cash, Craig?” Mrs. McLean asked.

  “I’ve got enough for a cab,” he said. “That’s all I’ll need.” Then he decided to hell with that, too. Truth time.

  When he had the tickets, and knew when they would be in New York, he walked to a pay phone and called Broadlawns, collect.

  Porter Craig finally came to the phone. He wondered what Porter was doing there. Was his mother on the sauce again with the Old Man dead?

  “I’m leaving Louisville in about ten minutes, Porter,” he said. “We get in at nine twenty. Will you have somebody meet me?”

  “Why don’t you just take a cab?” Porter said. “The house is full of people.”

  “Goddamnit, Porter, send a car and a chauffeur,” he snapped. “Nine twenty. Eastern Airlines Flight 522.” He hung up. He saw the look in Mrs. McLean’s eyes and the bafflement in Ilse’s.

  P.P. acted up on the plane, probably sensing that something was wrong. All he wanted to do was be cradled in silence; everytime that Ilse started to talk, to ask questions, he started to fuss. Lowell was grateful. He didn’t want to explain anything. He would explain afterward.

  A chauffeur in gray livery was waiting at LaGuardia when the DC-6 landed.

  “I’ve got to change him,” Ilse said, as the chauffeur walked up to them.

  “Lieutenant Lowell?” he asked, touching his cap.

  “Is there somewhere Mrs. Lowell can change my son?” Lowell asked him.

  Ilse looked at the chauffeur in confusion, in disbelief.

  “Yes, sir,” the chauffeur said. “If you’ll follow me.”

  On the second floor of the terminal building, the chauffeur pushed open an unmarked door. Inside was a private lounge. There was a stewardess or somebody behind a desk. When she saw the young officer walk in, she stood up.

  “May I help you, Lieutenant?” she asked, barring his way.

  “This is Mr. Craig Lowell,” the chauffeur said. The hostess looked at him. “Mr. Geoffrey Craig’s grandson,” the chauffeur said.

  “Oh, please come in,” the hostess said, “And this is Mrs. Lowell?”

  “Mrs. Lowell has to change our son,” Craig said.

  “Right this way, Mrs. Lowell,” the hostess said, and took Ilse’s arm and led her away. Ilse looked actually frightened, Craig thought.

  Lowell handed the chauffeur the baggage checks.

  “The car is at entrance three, sir,” the chauffeur said. “Would you like to meet me there? Or should I come back?”

  “I’ll meet you there.” There was a bar in the VIP lounge. Craig ordered a double scotch and drank it neat.

  The limousine was a Chrysler LeBaron with a stretched body. Craig wondered idly who it belonged to.

  Ilse didn’t ask questions on the way to Broadlawns. P.P. had upchucked, she said, and he had a fever. But when they passed inside the gate at Broadlawns, she asked where they were.

  “They call this place ‘Broadlawns,’” he said. “My mother lives here.”

  There were a half dozen cars on the circular drive before the house. Most of them were limousines, with their chauffeurs chatting in a group off to one side. When they walked up to the door, it was opened for them by the West Indian butler.

  “Good evening, Mr. Lowell,” he said. “Madam. The family is in the drawing room.”

  The family and some other vaguely remembered faces were scattered around the drawing room; but the center of attention was his mother, who was sitting on a couch facing the door to the foyer.

  When she looked at him, he saw that she was drunk.

  “Craig,” she said, getting unsteadily to her feet, “Pop-Pop is gone.”

  The she saw Ilse standing behind him holding P.P. A look of confusion, of bafflement, clouded her face.

  “I don’t believe…” she began.

  “Mother, this is Ilse,” Craig said. “The baby is Peter-Paul. He’s your grandson.”

  “I don’t understand,” his mother said, plaintively.

  “My God!” Porter Craig said.

  “This is my wife, Mother,” Craig said. “And our son.”

  “But you never said anything,” his mother said. She walked unsteadily over to Ilse and stared frankly at her.

  “I’m sorry about your father, Mrs.…Mrs.…” Ilse could not remember the name of the man Craig had told her his mother had married.

  “You’re foreign,” Mrs. Andre Pretier accused.

  “Ilse is German, Mother,” Craig said.

  “Yes, I can see she is,” his mother said. She turned to face him. “How dare you? How could you do this to me?”

  “For Christ’s sake!” Craig said.

  P.P. struggled, turned, and threw up what looked like a solid stream of vomitus that splashed on the carpet.

  “My God!” Porter Craig said.

  “Andre!” his mother shrieked, turning around to look desperately for her husband. When she located him, she screamed, “Do something.”

  “What, darling, would you like to have me do?”

  “Get that goddamned woman and her squalling brat out of my house!” she screamed, and then ran into the corridor and up the stairs.

  “Craig,” Porter Craig said, “you really could have handled this whole thing better.”

  “When I want your fucking advice, Porter,” Craig exploded, “I’ll ask for it.”

  “Craig!” Ilse said. “I want to go.”

  “I really think that would be best,” Andre Pretier said. “Under the circumstances. Until your mother has had a chance to adjust to this.”

  “Craig,” Ilse repeated, just over the edge of tears, “I want to go.”

  “Everyone seems to forget that this is my house,” Craig said. “I’ll go if and when I goddamn please.”

  “Craig, for God’s sake!” Porter Craig said. “What did you expect, when you just walked in like this, with that woman?”

  “That woman, you pasty-faced cocksucker, is my wife!”

  “You can’t talk to me that way!” Porter said.

  “Oh, my God, Craig, please,” Ilse said. “Take me out of here.”

  “Go to the apartment,” Andre Pretier said. “I’ll call and tell them you’re coming.” Lowell glared at him. “Craig, you know your mother. Staying here will just make things worse.”

  “Where are they going to bury him from?” Craig asked.

  “Saint Bartholomew’s, of course,” Porter Craig said. “He was on the vestry.”

  His mother reappeared at the doorway, hysterical.

  “Get out, get out, get out!” she screamed, tears running down her cheeks.

  “You see what you’ve done,” Porter Craig said.

  The butler was standing by the door across from his mother. His face was expressionless.

  “Have the chauffeur put my things back in the car,” Craig Lowell ordered. “And then telephone the Waldorf and get me a suite. Have them get me a doctor.”

  (Eleven)

  Ilse whimpered all the way into New York City, and she refused to go either to the funeral home to see the body or to Saint Bartholomew’s for the funeral service. He tried to tell her that his mother had nothing against her and that it could just as easily have gone the other way, t
hat she could have welcomed Ilse and P. P. into the family. He tried to tell her that he had had no way of knowing which way his mother would go; and for that reason, he had put off the meeting until it could no longer be put off.

  Ilse didn’t seem to have been hurt by him, by what he had and had not done; and she certainly wasn’t angry with him. She just wanted to get out of New York and go home, and she didn’t want to see any of his family. He didn’t blame her.

  He sat next to his mother during the funeral, and he rode with her to the cemetery; but she didn’t speak to him. She was on Cloud Nine, he realized. Tranquilized like a zombie.

  When Andre Pretier and Porter Craig came to the suite in the Waldorf after the interment, Ilse fled into the bedroom and wouldn’t come out.

  They asked about the baby, and Craig told them the doctor said there was nothing wrong with him. He was teething, and the plane ride had upset him.

  Andre Pretier said that if he had known who actually owned Broadlawns, he would have been in touch before to see what could be worked out in the way of renting it or, if Craig wished, having it appraised so that he could buy it.

  Craig believed him.

  “We can let Broadlawns ride,” he said. “I was angry, and I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

  “I understand there have been certain bequests in grandfather’s will,” Porter said.

  “I understand, unless he was lying to me, that we split everything right down the middle,” Craig said.

  “We’ll have to get together and talk things over,” Porter Craig said.

  “Steal what you can while you can, Porter,” Craig said. “You’ve got two years.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Grandpa wanted me to go to Wharton, Porter,” Lowell said. “I think I will. It’s a two-year course. And then I’ll be back.”

  “You’re going to Wharton,” Porter Craig said, tolerantly, patiently. “Wharton is a graduate school, Craig. You’ll have to take a degree, Craig.”

  “Two things I learned in the army, Porter,” Lowell said, even more dryly sarcastic, “is that ‘when there’s a will, there’s a way’ and ‘there’s an exception to every rule.’ You ever think about that? Who knows? I just might be the next chairman of the board and chief executive officer.”