“Sonofabitch!” he said, and reached for his telephone.
Then he reminded himself of his solemn vow to count to twenty slowly twice before picking up a telephone when he was angry. He slumped back in his chair and read the TWX again.
ROUTINE
HQ DEPT OF THE ARMY WASH DC 1005 18DEC64
COMMANDING GENERAL
FORT RUCKER AND THE ARMY AVIATION CENTER
ALA
ATTN: AVNC-AG
INFO: PERSONAL ATTN MAJ GEN BELLMON
1. SO MUCH OF PARAGRAPH 23, GENERAL ORDER 297, HQ DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY 29 NOVEMBER 1964 PERTAINING TO CAPT JOHN S. OLIVER ARMOR AS READS “IS RELIEVED OF PRESENT ASSIGNMENT AND TRANSFERRED TO HEADQUARTERS COMPANY 11TH AIR ASSAULT DIVISION FORT BENNING GA EFFECTIVE 1 JAN 1965” IS AMENDED TO READ “IS RELIEVED OF PRESENT ASSIGNMENT AND TRANSFERRED TO HEADQUARTERS JOHN F. KENNEDY CENTER FOR SPECIAL WARFARE FORT BRAGG NC EFFECTIVE 1 JAN 1965.”
2. IT IS SUGGESTED THAT SUBJECT OFFICER BE NOTIFIED OF THIS CHANGE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
FOR THE ADJUTANT GENERAL
J.C. LESTER LTCOL AGC
ACTING ASSISTANT ADJUTANT GENERAL
Johnny Oliver had been a good aide, a very good aide, a goddamned good aide for a year. And not only that, he’d gone above and beyond the call of duty, and stuck his neck out as a friend for the Bellmons.
He wasn’t supposed to know, and Barbara and Bobby certainly didn’t know he knew, but he had his sources and he had found out that Bobby was about to be given an elimination check ride, and was almost certain to flunk it. And then, all of a sudden, Bobby had miraculously polished his skills literally overnight. He had passed the check ride and gone on and gotten rated.
Bellmon didn’t believe in miracles, so he checked that out, first with the instructor pilot, who told him he wouldn’t pass Jesus Christ himself if he didn’t think he was safe to fly and up to snuff. Bellmon believed him, and looked elsewhere for the answer.
It had been Johnny Oliver. Fully aware that if he got caught at it he would be permanently taken off flight status himself (not to mention getting the lousy efficiency report Bellmon would have been obliged to give him), he had taken Bobby out in a helicopter and taught him enough to get him past the check ride.
And he had not waived his general’s aide’s insignia in anybody’s face, either, hiding behind the throne. He had taken the risk knowing that if Bellmon had caught him at it, he could kiss his career goodbye. He had done it because he liked Bobby, and because he knew Bobby’s father would be heartbroken if Bobby busted out.
Bellmon, in the end, had—not without a certain uneasiness— decided that more harm than good would come from his becoming officially aware of what had taken place. The Army would lose two pilots, and in Johnny Oliver’s case, anyway, a bright young officer with great potential.
And that potential was going to be enhanced working for George Rand in the 11th Air Assault. He would come out of that assignment knowing how a division, not any division, but the Army’s first airmobile division, functioned in combat. And probably with a gold leaf on his collar point, too. He would have unusual knowledge and experience for an officer of his age and length of service. It was a damned good assignment for him, and for the Army. And now the orders were changed. Johnny was assigned to the John F. Kennedy Center for Special Warfare.
Those sonsofbitches in Green Berets again!
He was not going to stand still and have those bastards take a perfectly decent, upstanding, outstanding young officer and ruin him!
He lit a cigarette, and when he saw that his hand was hardly shaking at all, he punched his intercom button and, proud of the control he was now exercising over his voice, very calmly and politely asked his secretary to see if she could get Brigadier General Hanrahan at the JFK Center at Bragg for him.
“If he’s not in his office, Mrs. Delally, try his quarters, please.”
General Hanrahan was not in his headquarters. He was not in his quarters, either. General Bellmon spoke with Mrs. Hanrahan, and wished her a merry Christmas, and she told him Red was off somewhere with Craig Lowell, and that she didn’t really expect him back until Christmas Eve.
If he was off with Lieutenant Colonel Craig Lowell, God only knew where they would be. And God, if he had any sense, would probably not want to know.
When Mrs. Delally called the Office of the Adjutant General in the Pentagon, the only officer he could get on the phone, a light colonel, obviously didn’t have the brains to blow his nose without illustrated instructions.
“No problem, thank you, Colonel, I’ll call again in the morning. ”
He had less trouble getting Brigadier General George R. Rand on the telephone.
“I have a TWX here, George,” he said. “Assigning Johnny Oliver to Red Hanrahan and the snake eaters. You know anything about it?”
“You don’t?” Rand asked.
“First I’d heard of it. What do you know?”
“He called me a couple of days ago and very politely said that he’d been offered another job—”
“By Red Hanrahan?” Bellmon interrupted.
“He said ‘at the Special Warfare Center,’ but I’m sure he meant Red, because . . . after I told him I wouldn’t stand in his way . . . Red called me and asked if I minded. He said he had a job for him, with a little less pressure than he’s been under. But that if I really needed him . . . et cetera et cetera.”
“Hanrahan wanted him when he first became my aide,” Bellmon said.
“But you didn’t know about this, huh?”
“Oliver is on leave. It must have come up all of a sudden. George, if I can talk some sense to you, will you still take him?”
“Sure. Love to have him.”
“I’m going to look into this. I’ll probably get back to you. Thank you, George.”
General Bellmon hung up, and then broke, one by one, six #2 lead, rubber-tipped pencils into inch-long pieces. Then he walked out of his office, smiled at Mrs. Delally, and said that he would be going to his quarters now, and if it was important, he could be reached there.
[ FOUR ]
Annex #1, Officers’ Open Mess
Fort Rucker, Alabama
1505 18 December 1964
Second Lieutenant Robert F. Bellmon, Jr., sat at the bar of Annex #1 drinking Miller’s High Life beer from a can and feeling more than a little sorry for himself. He was about to lose the companionship of the officer sitting beside him at the bar, Captain John S. Oliver. Johnny Oliver was to report to the 11th Air Assault Division at Fort Benning, on 1 January 1965.
Bobby was staying on at Rucker to get transitioned into fixed wing. After that, he didn’t know what was going to happen to him. But an era, clearly, was over. He was being separated from the best friend he had ever made in his life, and nothing would ever be the same again. Bobby didn’t think much of his father’s new aide. Goddamned stuffed shirt.
It was difficult for a second lieutenant to be stationed on a post where the commanding general had the same name. His peers were generally divided into two categories, those who thought getting close to the general’s son was dangerous, and those who thought they might somehow be able to turn it to their advantage. Bobby was naive but not a fool.
The test of a friend, Bobby believed, was when someone did something for you that either cost him, and/or not because something was in it for him. The proof that Johnny Oliver was a friend had been several instances where he had done things for Bobby despite the fact that he was General Bellmon’s aide rather than because of it. If it hadn’t been for Johnny, Bobby knew, he wouldn’t be wearing wings, period.
Bobby realized that what he really admired in Oliver was his self-confidence. He decided what was right, and then did it. Bobby privately thought that he was still thinking like a plebe: If a thing is not specifically permitted, it is prohibited. Johnny reversed that: If something isn’t specifically proscribed, screw it, let’s do it!
Captain Johnny Oliver had signaled the bartender for ano
ther round of beers, and the bartender had just stooped over the cooler to get them when the phone rang. Bobby picked it up.
“Annex Number One, Lieutenant Bellmon, sir,” he said in the prescribed manner.
“Is Captain Oliver in there?” a male voice asked. “This is Major Ting. I’m the AOD.” The aerodrome officer of the day.
“Hold one, please, sir,” Bobby said, and covered the microphone with his hand. “It’s for you. Major Ting. The AOD.”
When Bobby handed him the telephone, Captain John S. Oliver had also been thinking of 1 January 1965. On that date, he believed, it would be possible for him to put Liza Wood—and the kid—out of his mind once and for all.
Obviously, it wasn’t meant to happen. Love couldn’t overwhelm the obstacles to their getting married and living happily ever afterward.
He understood Liza’s position, and was aware that a lot of people—including himself, from time to time—would think she was absolutely right.
She had lost one soldier husband—Allan’s father—and had been devastated by the loss, and determined not to let it happen again, to her or to Allan.
“He’s already lost one daddy, Johnny, and I’m not going to put him through that again.”
The implication there, of course, was that he had become Allan’s daddy, and that was true. He liked the kid, and the kid liked him, and he would have been perfectly happy to raise him as his own.
And it was not as if he would have to take off his officer’s uniform and get a job selling used cars or life insurance. He was a millionaire, which—although it was hard to really comprehend—was absolutely true.
His sister and her husband had tried to cheat him, screw him, out of his half of their father’s estate, which consisted primarily of Jack’s Truck Stop, in Burlington, Vermont. It was painful to think that your own sister, your only living relative, would consciously plan to screw you of what was rightfully yours, but that’s what she had done.
His father’s will had said that either his sister or he could offer to buy the other one out. His sister had sent him a letter saying she and her husband wanted to buy him out, and his share was worth so much.
At that point, he had the option of sending her that much money, and he would own all the truck stop. Or taking her offer, which meant that she would send him a check and she and her husband would own it. Actually, she didn’t offer to send him a check, she said that she and her husband would pay him off “over time.”
His first reaction when he got the letter was that—even knowing nothing about it—the truck stop was probably worth a little more than twice what she was offering. But that was a moot point, because he had about two thousand dollars in the bank, which wasn’t even in the same ballpark as the two hundred sixty-eight thousand he would have had to send her to buy her out.
At that point, Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell had entered the picture. Lowell said that he didn’t want to intrude in Johnny’s personal business, but business was business, and a quarter of a million dollars was a lot of money, and it couldn’t hurt to get a professional opinion of the offer.
Lowell said that Geoff Craig’s father was chairman of the board of Craig, Powell, Kenyon & Dawes, Investment Bankers, of New York. They had experts on the staff who knew about such things, and Lowell felt sure they would be happy to help.
“Thanks, Colonel, but I don’t want to lean on Geoff to lean on his father.”
“I’m vice chairman of the board,” Lowell had said. “Let me give them a call, Johnny.”
A funny little man showed up at Johnny’s BOQ and handed him a card identifying him as Foxworth T. Mattingly, Esq., Attorney-At-Law. Mattingly said that he was from Craig, Powell, Kenyon & Dawes, and had been instructed by Colonel Lowell to take care of the details of the truck stop purchase. Johnny had signed a power of attorney authorizing him to handle the deal.
And had promptly forgotten about the deal until his sister had telephoned, hysterical, furious, and, he suspected, drunk. After she delivered a ten-minute lecture about what an ungrateful sonofabitch he was, he finally understood that she had received a letter from Craig, Powell, Kenyon & Dawes, Investment Bankers, informing her that John S. Oliver, Jr., was exercising his right to purchase her share in Jack’s Truck Stop, for the amount she proposed, and enclosed please find a cashier’s check in the amount of $268,000.00.
Johnny had called Colonel Lowell.
“Mattingly found out the property’s worth a little more than four million, Johnny,” Lowell said. “So I told him to buy it for you, for—what did she offer?—a quarter of a million.”
“I don’t have $268,000,” Johnny said.
“The firm loaned it to you,” Lowell said. “That’s what we do, Johnny, we’re investment bankers. This was a very good deal for an investment banker. We knew our money was safe.”
In the end, his sister got to keep Jack’s Truck Stop, and Johnny deposited a certified check in the First National Bank of Ozark for $2,327,000.00.
With that kind of money, Liza argued, they could really build a life for themselves, if he would only get out of the goddamned army.
He found he couldn’t do that. He did not want to go into the real estate business, or buy a Ford dealership, or even a charter boat in the Florida Keys. He was a soldier. He was a good soldier. He liked being a soldier, and he knew that he would be miserable doing anything else.
Liza told him the decision was his, and it was either her and Allan, or the goddamn army.
Now she wouldn’t even talk to him on the telephone. It really hurt to know she was only seven miles away and wouldn’t talk to him.
On 1 January 1965, he would report to the Special Warfare Center at Bragg—new surroundings, new duties, and maybe the pain wouldn’t be as bad.
“Captain Oliver, sir,” Johnny Oliver said to the battered telephone at the end of the green linoleum bar in Annex #1.
“Major Ting, Oliver. I’m the AOD.”
“Yes, sir?” Oliver said.
“The tower just got a call from a civilian Cessna 310-H,” Major Ting said. “They’re thirty minutes out. They have a Code Seven aboard. No honors, but they request ground transportation.”
Major Ting obviously doesn’t know that I have been replaced as aide-de-camp to the commanding general.
A Code Seven, based on the pay grade, was a brigadier general. “No honors” meant the general didn’t want a band playing, or an officer of suitable—that is, equal or superior rank—to officially welcome him to Fort Rucker. All this Code Seven wanted was a staff car to take him to Ozark.
There was little question in Oliver’s mind who it was. It was Brigadier General “Red” Hanrahan, Commandant of the U.S. Army John F. Kennedy School for Special Warfare at Fort Bragg. Oliver was sure that it was Red Hanrahan for a couple of reasons. When he’d seen him at Bragg the week before, when he’d gone there with Father Lunsford, Hanrahan had told him he would be coming to Rucker on Monday anyway, to deliver a briefing on Army participation in Operation Dragon Rouge to Rucker officers.
More important, he was arriving in a 310-H. That almost certainly meant Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell’s 310-H.
But it never hurt to check.
“Sir, have you got a name for the O-7?”
“General Hanrahan,” Major Ting said.
“Thank you very much for calling me, sir,” Oliver said. “I appreciate it.”
It was not the time to mention that he was no longer aide-de-camp to General Bellmon, and that calls like this should be directed to his replacement.
“My pleasure,” Major Ting said, and hung up.
Captain Johnny Oliver, with visible reluctance, pushed his beer can away from him, then made several calls, dialing each number from memory.
He called the general’s driver and told him to get a one-star plate, and the staff car, and to pick him up at Annex #1.
He called the billeting office and told them to make sure the Magnolia House, the VIP quarters, were set up and p
repared to receive Brigadier General Hanrahan and a party of God-only-knew.
He called the main club, and told them to be prepared to reset the head table for General Bellmon’s dinner party on short notice; there would probably be Brigadier General Hanrahan and who else God-only-knew.
Finally, he called Quarters #1. Mrs. Bellmon answered.
“Johnny, Mrs. B.,” Oliver said. “General Hanrahan will land at Cairns in about twenty minutes, in a Cessna 310-H.”
“That probably means Colonel Lowell,” Mrs. Bellmon responded.
“Yes, ma’am, I think so. I’ve called the club and Magnolia House and laid on the general’s car. They requested ground transportation to Ozark, but I figured I’d better cover all the bases.”
“You’re supposed to be retired, Johnny,” Barbara Bellmon said.
“My last hurrah,” Johnny said. “I thought it would be better to spring General Hanrahan and Colonel Lowell on Captain Hornsby slowly. Or at least one at a time.”
She laughed.
“Where are you?”
“At Annex One, with Bobby,” Oliver said, then winced. Bobby, who did not like to be called “Bobby,” was shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation.
“We’ll see you at the club, then,” she said. “Thank you, Johnny. Again.”
“One last time,” he said, and hung up and turned to Bobby. “Finish your beer, Roberto, duty calls.”
Until now, Oliver hadn’t paid much attention to the weather; it was important only when he was going to fly, but when they heard the horn of the Chevrolet staff car bleating and went outside, he grew concerned. It was drizzling and cold, which meant the real possibility of wing ice, and the visibility and ceiling were probably down to next to nothing.
It was a ten-minute ride before the general’s driver pulled the nose of the Chevrolet into the parking space reserved for the commanding general at Base Operations.
“Come on, Bob,” Oliver said. “The only way they’re going to get into here is ILS. You ought to see that.”
They entered the Base Operations building through the rear door, walked through the lobby past the oil portrait of Major General Bogardus S. Cairns, a former tank commander who crashed to his death in his white H-13 two weeks after he’d pinned on his second star, and climbed an interior stairway to the ILS Room.
Special Ops Page 13
