Army Blue

by Lucian K. Truscott

  You did these seemingly minor, basic things for them, and when you asked them, they would go forth and kill for you. It was amazing, just plain amazing, when you actually sat down and thought about it, which the Colonel had done many times and at great length. No explanation accounted for the behavior of men in the Infantry. Ironically, the best line the Colonel had ever heard about the Army was one delivered by his father. Another man, a General under whom the Colonel had once served, had been there when his father delivered it, and told the Colonel the story years later.

  The two men were in London, just before the United States declared war and became involved in the land war in Europe. They were at a dinner party at 10 Downing Street, and Clare Boothe Luce, who had invaded Europe as a correspondent for her husband's magazine, Life, had somehow wangled herself an invitation. In fact, she was the only woman at a table that included General Blue, Field Marshal Montgomery, and several other, lesser generals.

  Near the end of the meal, Mrs. Luce tapped the edge of her water goblet with her knife and, having secured the attention of every man at the table, engaged them in a kind of parlor game. She posed a question: What did the gentlemen think was the most perfect thing in the world? They went around the table, each man expounding at length on why he thought a Rolls-Royce, or a Gainsborough, or a custom-made shotgun, or a trout stream in Scotland was the most perfect thing in the world. Finally the question was posed by Mrs. Luce to General Blue. He took a drag on his cigarette and looked her in the eye.

  “An Infantry Battalion.”

  “And why is that, General Blue?” Mrs. Luce asked with a thin smile.

  “Because an Infantry Battalion will do any goddamned thing you tell it to do,” said the General. The rest of the military men at the table broke into applause.

  “I'm surprised no one championed a woman as the most perfect thing in the world,” said Mrs. Luce. “Especially you, General Blue. I thought you might be the one to make a case for us.”

  “What for?” asked the General, studying the glowing tip of his cigarette. “I've never met a woman who would do anything you told her to do.”

  The officers at the table laughed. Clare Boothe Luce smiled. The parlor game ended right there.

  The Colonel had always thought the story about his father would have been the perfect Army tale, were it not for the fact that Clare Boothe Luce spent the rest of her life bragging to anyone who would listen about her wartime affair with General Matthew Nelson Blue, Jr. His father never mentioned Mrs. Luce, either to acknowledge or deny the rumors she caused, but the Colonel had always known they were true. He'd always hoped his mother would never hear the rumors, but he knew she had. What broke his heart was not their truth, but the fact that his father did nothing either to shut her up or to dispel them. He relished the rumors and cared not about their effect on his wife.

  There was a knock on his door.

  “What do you have for me this morning?” asked the Colonel. “More of the same?”

  Sergeant Beshear, the brigade personnel sergeant, stood in the door, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He was what they called a “college boy,” a recent graduate of Penn State who got drafted and found his way into the NCO school, which had graduated him nine weeks later an Army sergeant with a specialty in personnel. Sergeants who came from the NCO school were also known as “shake-and-bakes,” after a television commercial for a product that promised something equally, improbably instantaneous, like fried chicken from the oven.

  “We've got a problem, sir,” said Sergeant Beshear.

  The Colonel signaled with a nod of his head, and Sergeant Beshear entered.

  “One of the officers lost his weapon last night.”

  “Which officer and which weapon?” the Colonel asked.

  “Lieutenant Hatcher lost his .45, sir.”

  “How in hell did he manage that, Sarge?”

  “They were in the field as aggressors for Infantry Officer Basic Course last night, and he says it just disappeared.” Sergeant Beshear handed the Colonel a manila folder. The Colonel opened the folder and studied its contents for a moment and looked up.

  “Where is Hatcher now, Beshear?”

  “He's downrange looking for the weapon, sir.”

  “When's he due back here?”

  “I'm not sure, sir.”

  “Has he got a radio with him?”

  “Yes, sir. He took the C Company jeep. We ought to be able to raise him on the second battalion net.”

  The Colonel stood up and headed for the radio out in the orderly room. He met Sergeant Major Clinton coming through the door.

  “'Fore you get on the horn to Hatcher, sir, there's somethin’ I got to tell you.” He closed the door to the Colonel's office behind him. They were alone.

  The Colonel sat down.

  “Shoot, Sarenmajor,” he said.

  “I been talkin’ to the brigade's supply sergeants this mornin’, sir, and we're thinkin’ that maybe it ain't really necessary for that weapon to be reported lost, sir. If you know what I mean.”

  “I'm not sure that I do, Sarenmajor. Why don't you be more specific?”

  “Well,” said Sergeant Major Clinton, shuffling his boots on the linoleum floor, “it's like this, sir. Your average supply sergeant in this man's Army has a habit of kinda puttin’ stuff away for a rainy day, sir. You know, excess stuff that mighta come in a shipment of parts, maybe an extra sleepin’ bag that turned up, maybe a box of ammunition magazines, maybe some extra spare parts to the .45-caliber pistol.”

  “What are you getting at, Sergeant Major?” said the Colonel, sounding exercised.

  “It's lookin’ like this, sir. Between the brigade's supply sergeants, I'm thinkin’ we could build us a .45-caliber pistol, sir, and I know a man down in B Company's got a set of tools—used to be a machinist, he did—who can stamp us out a new serial number, same as Lieutenant Hatcher's, pretty as you please. That way, you wouldn't have to report the missin’ weapon to division HQ, sir, with all the shit-suckin’ that's bound to bring on.”

  “What you're talking about is strictly illegal, you know that, don't you, Sergeant Major? A violation of about three or four Army regulations.”

  “Well, sir, there's better laws been broken for worse reasons, I know that for sure.”

  “I appreciate your motives, but not your methods. You knew that would be my answer when you came in here, didn't you?”

  “Yes, sir, I figured you wouldn't be too keen on the idea, but I figured it was my job to give you the opportunity, if you know what I mean, sir.”

  “Well, thanks but no thanks, Sarenmajor,” said the Colonel. “And why don't you tell those supply sergeants the same thing while you're giving them the word from me that no extra weapons had better materialize in this brigade as long as I'm its commander. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir. Got it.”

  “And why don't you radio Hatcher and tell him to get his ass out of the boonies and back here ASAP. I want a word with him.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Tell Beshear to bring me proper forms to file a missing-weapon report while you're at it.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Sergeant Major Clinton opened the Colonel's door and ambled into the orderly room. The Colonel shook his head slowly from side to side. They broke the mold when they made Sergeant Major Clinton, the Colonel thought. Truly they did.

  He took a sip of coffee and checked his watch. Six-thirty. He picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Martine?” he said. His wife sounded half asleep.

  “One second, dear. Let me turn down the television.”

  “Martine? Are the kids up?” Two out of four were still at home and didn't exactly take after their father when it came to getting up in the morning.

  “They're vertical, but I'm not sure I'd call that up,” said Martine. She was tall—as tall as the Colonel—and blond and notable for her sense of humor in the face of the thousand and one trials and tribulations of the Army wi
fe. She hadn't been born into the Army, but looking at her, you'd never know it. In twenty-five years of married life in the Army, she had moved the family eighteen times, with hardly a chipped plate or a skinned knee. This was the Blues’ third assignment to Fort Benning, and she had demanded that they live off-post for the first time, to “get out of that damned substandard Army housing,” as she explained to the Colonel. He acquiesced to her wish, and now they were happily settled in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Columbus.

  “What's on the agenda today, honey?” the Colonel asked. He had left the house before anyone else was awake, and it was his habit every morning to check in with his wife when she had awakened.

  “Bill's got football practice after school, and Debbie's got her piano lesson. I'm going antiquing with Zelda Lipscomb this afternoon, but I'll be back in time to pick up Debbie. Bill's got a ride with one of his friends. What time do you expect to get home, dear?”

  “Seven, seven-thirty. It's Monday. We have that damn officers’ call at brigade headquarters at six, and it usually goes about an hour.”

  “Can't they schedule that meeting during working hours?”

  “Every hour is a working hour in the 196th Light Infantry Brigade, Mrs. Blue. Where've you been keeping yourself? I know. You've been civilianized since we moved off-post.” He laughed and sipped his coffee.

  “Listen, Colonel Blue. We both could stand a little civilianization, if you ask me. You're not going to be an Army officer forever, you know. It might do you some good to remind yourself what normal working hours are, every once in awhile.”

  “Yes, dear,” the Colonel said in a tone of mock resignation.

  “Well, try to get home earlier if you can.”

  “You know I will, Mrs. Blue,” the Colonel said. “I've got to go. I've got another call.”

  “ ‘Bye, love.”

  “'Bye.”

  Personnel Sergeant Beshear was standing in the door.

  “I'm not sure you're ready for this one, sir,” said Sergeant Beshear.

  “What's up now, Beshear?”

  “It's the MPs on line one, sir. Something about a demonstration at the main gate to the post.”

  “What does that have to do with us, Sarge? We're not on riot alert this month.”

  “It's not exactly a riot, sir. It's three women and two babies, standing outside the main gate holding antiwar signs.”

  “Yeah?”

  “One of them is Lieutenant Sullivan's wife, sir. She's holding a sign that says ‘Stop the War,’ and she's pushing a baby carriage.”

  “Jesus. What next?” said the Colonel, picking up the phone. He intoned his customary greeting: “Colonel Blue.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was terse and clipped: “Colonel Blue? Colonel Ramsey, post provost marshal. Your sergeant fill you in?”

  “He sure did, Colonel.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?” asked Colonel Blue.

  “One of those women out there belongs to one of your lieutenants, Colonel. I've got orders to see this demonstration is stopped. I suggest you call that lieutenant in, and if need be, the two of you get down there and take care of the situation.”

  “I'm not sure that's the job of an Infantry brigade commander, sir.” He called the provost marshal “sir” despite the fact that the provost was also a full colonel. Little nods to protocol, he knew from many years of experience, could go a long way in the Army.

  “I don't care what you think your job is, Colonel Blue. I'm telling you the commanding general told me to stop that demonstration, and I want you to round up your lieutenant and tell him to get his goddamned wife out of there.”

  “Isn't this a job for the MPs, Colonel? My understanding is that there are only three of them. It hardly seems necessary—”

  “They're outside the gate, Colonel,” the provost marshal interrupted. “Under civilian control.”

  “Then it appears they are a concern of the Columbus authorities,” the Colonel said.

  “The sheriff and the chief of police are on the scene, but the women refuse to disperse,” said Colonel Ramsey.

  “Then what's the point, Colonel Ramsey?” said the Colonel, losing his patience.

  “The point is this, Colonel. We've got a very difficult situation here. My hands are tied, because I don't have jurisdiction. The sheriffs and the chief's hands are tied, because they can't find any state or municipal statute they can enforce against the women. The women have refused to disperse, but I've got my orders, Colonel Blue, and now you've got yours.”

  “Yes, well, I'll see what I can do,” the Colonel said without enthusiasm.

  “I'll be hearing from you, then,” said Colonel Ramsey.

  “That you will, Colonel,” said the Colonel. He hung up the phone and called to Sergeant Major Clinton.

  “Sarenmajor?”

  “Yes, sir. Right here, sir.” Sergeant Major Clinton appeared in the door.

  “What's happened to this man's Army, Sarenmajor? Can you tell me that?”

  “No, sir. Cain't. Even if I could, wouldn't be my place, sir. No, sir.”

  “Did you hear what they want us to do, Sarenmajor?”

  “Yes, sir. I was listenin’.”

  “It's a different Army, isn't it, Sarenmajor? Demonstrations at the front gate. Three women and a baby, for crying out loud, and they've got the whole damn post at a standstill.”

  “Been a different Army ever day I been in it, sir. That's all I can say for sure.”

  “Well, find out where Lieutenant Sullivan is this morning, and get him on in here.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply from the orderly room.

  The Colonel leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. What next? he wondered. A gay cook having a nervous breakdown because his boyfriend left him? A whole squad on LSD, slithering about the squad bay on their bellies because they thought they were snakes? A transvestite sergeant arrested in a singles bar downtown when he tried to pick up the son of a local banker? All of this and more had happened to the 196th Infantry Brigade over the past year, so he shouldn't be surprised by the morning's developments. He glanced at the front page of the newspaper.

  Of course! It was the morning of the Moratorium, the big antiwar march on Washington. But what in hell did the march on Washington have to do with Fort Benning, Georgia? Why here, why now, why me? The eternal puzzle, the endless, bottomless pit of bewilderment inhabited by every commander from top to bottom, from general to corporal, from division commander to fire team leader. Current tenant: Colonel Matthew Nelson Blue III.

  There was a knock at the door, and a diminutive figure in ill-fitting fatigues appeared.

  “Lieutenant Sullivan reporting as ordered, sir,” said the figure, fairly vibrating with fear as he spoke. He was an OCS lieutenant who had successfully dodged the draft for several years after having graduated from college, and thus was at least twenty-five or twenty-six years old, yet he looked not a day over nineteen. The Colonel had given him the weapons platoon and not much else, on the theory that less harm could be done there. So far, the theory had worked out as planned.

  “You have any idea why you're here, Lieutenant Sullivan?” the Colonel asked, with no particular malice in his voice. Just curiosity.

  “No, sir, I don't,” said Lieutenant Sullivan.

  “Do you have any idea where your wife and child are this morning?” asked the Colonel.

  “At home, I presume, sir.”

  “Well, they're not.”

  Sullivan looked momentarily confused, then alarmed.

  “Has something happened that I don't know about, sir? Is there something I should know?”

  “I'll say there is, Lieutenant,” said the Colonel, standing behind his desk. “Your wife and child are presently standing outside the main gate to Fort Benning, and your wife is holding a sign that reads ‘Stop the War.’ Do you know anything about this?”

  “No, sir, I don't.” Sullivan looked directly at the Colo
nel without blinking, his fear suddenly in abeyance.

  The Colonel studied Sullivan for a moment, then walked around his desk and threw his arm around the young man's shoulders.

  “You and I have got something to do, Sullivan,” said the Colonel. “And it ain't gonna be pleasant for either of us. Are you ready?”

  “I'm afraid I'm not ready, sir. But I'm willing,” said Lieutenant Sullivan.

  “I've been told to clear your wife's demonstration from the post gate, Lieutenant Sullivan. I don't think it's my job to accomplish this task, and I'm not sure that what I've been asked to do is within the law. For all I know, your wife and her friends have every right in the world to be standing out there protesting or whatever else they want to do with themselves.”

  “They do, sir. I mean, they've got the right to be there.”

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself, Sullivan. Are you sure you didn't know something about this before it happened?”

  Lieutenant Sullivan stopped in the middle of the orderly room and turned to face the Colonel.

  “I knew about her feelings concerning the war, sir. And I knew she had something planned, but I didn't know what it was. I figured what she did was her business, sir. We're married, but I'm the one who's in the Army, sir. Not her. What she does on her own is her business, sir. If I'm not mistaken, that's why we're here—to fight for her right or anyone's right to speak freely about anything that they care to speak about, whether that speech takes the form of verbal communication or a poster held up outside an Army base gate.”

  “You sound like you've given this some thought, Lieutenant,” said the Colonel.