The Generals

by W. E. B Griffin

  General Bellmon thought that jungle ripstops (which came both in plain OD and camouflage material) were among the brighter ideas of the Quartermaster Corps. And so he had a half dozen sets. He was wearing, however, standard GI fatigues. It had been decided by some sonofabitch that the summer work uniform within Third Army would be standard fatigues. They were hot, bulky, and caused prickly heat, but budgetary considerations precluded the issue of the more comfortable ripstops to all troops.

  Hanrahan and his Green Berets wore ripstops and jungle boots. Though they were attached to Fort Bragg for rations and quarters, they took their orders directly from the Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations. Red Hanrahan had in effect told the CG, Third United States Army (who had issued the fatigues order) to go fuck himself. Green Berets would wear what Red Hanrahan thought they should wear. He could get away with it.

  General Bellmon could have worn ripstops, too. General officers (so the hallowed legend went) were permitted to wear any uniform they chose. But Bellmon wore fatigues and jump boots and suffered prickly heat because the troops had to wear fatigues and suffer prickly heat. Bellmon had also made it plain that none of his officers had better be caught in ripstops.

  Red Hanrahan appeared at the door, came to attention, and threw a snappy salute.

  Bellmon returned it with a casual wave of his hand.

  “I hope I didn’t take you from something important, Red,” he said.

  “No, sir.”

  “Sit down,” General Bellmon said, waving Hanrahan onto a leather couch. A balding staff sergeant appeared with a tray on which sat two cups of steaming coffee and two Coca-Colas. He set it on the coffee table before the couch and left the room, closing the door after him. Bellmon went to the couch and sat down beside Hanrahan.

  “If I have a choice,” Hanrahan said, with an Irish lilt, “I’ll have both.”

  He picked up the Coke and drank about half of it. “Hotter than hell. I’m dehydrated.”

  “Are you aware of the Monte Cristo TWX?” General Bellmon asked.

  “Execute Phase One, sir,” Hanrahan said. “They got word to me.”

  It was OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE, the highest military priority. Yet Hanrahan wasn’t the slightest bit excited. That meant he obviously knew all about it. Or wanted to give the impression he did.

  Bellmon stood up and walked to his desk to get the thick, sealed envelope. He took a black GI ballpoint pen from the pocket of his fatigue blouse, ripped loose the TOP SECRET cover sheet, and turned it over. He wrote on it the date, the time, and BELLMON, LTGEN. Then he handed the pen to Hanrahan, who wrote HANRAHAN, MAJGEN.

  Then Bellmon tore open the envelope.

  Inside were six smaller envelopes, each with a TOP SECRET cover sheet. The one on top had MONTE CRISTO on it. Bellmon tore that loose and they both repeated the business of writing date, time, and signature on the back. Then Bellmon tore the envelope open.

  Inside was a thin sheaf of papers, held together with a metal clip. The words TOP SECRET were printed in inch-high red letters on the top and bottom of each page. The first page said:

  OPERATION MONTE CRISTO

  PHASE ONE

  1. Phase One of OPERATION MONTE CRISTO will be executed when directed by the Chief of Staff, U.S. Army, or higher authority.

  2. SYNOPSIS OF THE OPERATION:

  A. It is contemplated that an operation will be mounted requiring coordinated effort by the U.S. Army, Air Force, and Navy in Southeast Asia. Coordination of this contemplated operation with Headquarters, Military Assistance Command-Vietnam, and/or any of its subordinate commands will be effected by, and only by, the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Any communication between the personnel of Operation Monte Cristo and Headquarters, Military Assistance Command-Vietnam, and/or any of its subordinate commands, is expressly forbidden.

  B. The operation envisions a heliborne assault by Army and/or Air Force rotary-wing aircraft operating from a U.S. Navy aircraft carrier upon a Prisoner of War camp near Hanoi, North Vietnam, to liberate officer and enlisted personnel of U.S. Military Forces held by the North Vietnamese.

  3. ACTION REQUIRED AT THIS TIME:

  A. Establish a headquarters (Code Name: HOME BASE) at Fort Bragg, N.C., or on such military reservations as may be under the command of CG, Ft Bragg/XVIII A/BC.

  B. CG, Ft Bragg/XVIII A/BC will be prepared to receive the Commanding Officer (Code Name: OUTFIELDER) who will hand-carry his authority with him. He will then render any assistance as OUTFIELDER may require from available assets, priority AAA-1. This document constitutes Direct Depot Requisitioning Authority for OUTFIELDER.

  C. Other addressees will immediately dispatch to HOME BASE one officer in the Grade of Colonel to effect immediate liaison with OUTFIELDER. These officers have been selected and advised of their roles in MONTE CRISTO and will make themselves known to addressees. Paragraph C is intended solely to insure that in the event of death, accident, or other exigency of the service involving selected officers that a suitable replacement will be made immediately available.

  D. No other action is required for Phase One, and no action not specified herein should be initiated by addressees. Liaison, formal or informal, with persons or headquarters not on list of addressees, specifically including any headquarters or agency of the U.S. Navy, is expressly forbidden.

  BY DIRECTION OF THE COMMANDER IN CHIEF:

  James F. Keller

  Rear Admiral, USN

  Secretary, JCS.

  There were six more pages in the PHASE ONE folder. The other five were blank.

  “I guess you’ve seen this, Red?” General Bellmon asked, handing it to him.

  “Yes, sir,” Hanrahan said. He looked at Bellmon, smiled, and added, “I wrote it, Bob.”

  “I thought you probably had, when I saw what it was,” Bellmon replied. “Who’s Outfielder?”

  “One of ours, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “All Mac said when he called is that he thought I’d like the ball game.”

  “Mac called?” Bellmon asked, crisply incredulous.

  “Mac is my guy in this,” Hanrahan said. “He called from Washington. From a pay phone in a Colonel Sanders Fried Chicken. He said that if it wasn’t raining, he’d like to play baseball, and that he had an outfield I wouldn’t believe.”

  “Jesus Christ, Red! This is Top Secret.”

  “Top Secret Quincy/Fox,” Hanrahan agreed. “But I don’t think my phone is tapped—I know my phone isn’t tapped. And I don’t think they’ve got a tap on every pay phone in every Colonel Sanders.”

  “What did he mean about ‘you wouldn’t believe’ his outfield?”

  “I said, ‘Is that so?’ and he said, ‘You’ll like it but you won’t believe it.’ I don’t know what that means, except that it wasn’t bad news.”

  “Is he talking about you?”

  “I wish he was, but I don’t think so,” Hanrahan said. “At least it looks like our ball game. No Air Force, no Marines.”

  “Most of the people in the Hanoi Hilton are Air Force,” Bellmon said. “Or Navy.”

  “But we are the guys with the rifles who take and hold that small important piece of real estate,” Hanrahan said.

  “What do you need from me?” Bellmon asked.

  “Right now, nothing, sir,” Hanrahan said. “Presuming I have your permission to use McCall for Home Base.”

  “Sure,” Bellmon said. “I expected that.”

  “I think McCall would attract less attention,” Hanrahan said. “We do all kinds of strange things out there.”

  “Which of my officers is going to make himself known to me?” Bellmon asked. “Can you tell me?”

  “I guess Mac is representing both of us, General,” General Hanrahan said, carefully.

  “And is Outfielder going to go to you or me?”

  “I’m sure he’ll come to you, sir,” Hanrahan said.

  “Then all we can do is wait until he shows up?”

  “I would think so, sir.”
<
br />   “And there’s nothing I can do for you?”

  “I would be grateful if the general could see his way clear to loaning me that LOH for a ride back out to McCall,” Hanrahan said, drolly.

  “Help yourself, Red.”

  You feisty little Irish bastard, you know a whole lot you’re not telling me. Half because you shouldn’t, and half because you like to rub it in my face that I’m too old to do anything but run a desk.

  (Five)

  As they approached gate 13 at Washington National Airport, Mrs. Dorothy Sims realized that she was about to have another embarrassment to go with her drunken friend. She was traveling first class. People on orders under the rank of general traveled tourist. Since this nice little man beside her had a briefcase chained to his wrist, that made him, more than likely, a warrant officer courier. Warrant officer couriers traveled tourist.

  “I wonder if I might see your ticket,” the nice little man said. She opened her purse and got it and gave it to him.

  “It’s first class, I’m afraid,” Dorothy said. “I just—”

  “I’m glad it is,” he said. “I was going to see if…What I mean is, I’m up in front, too.”

  “I travel a lot about the guys, the POWS,” Dorothy said. “I just can’t take a lot of travel in tourist.”

  “Be glad you can afford it,” Sandy Felter said.

  He steered her past the line of people waiting to have their carry-on luggage examined. A crew-cut man in a business suit, who had been standing near the wall, took three steps toward them.

  “This lady’s with me,” Felter said. The crew-cut man made a small signal to the uniformed guards. Sandy Felter propelled her through the metal detecting arch, not slowing. She sensed that he knew they were not going to be stopped to explain what made the light flash red.

  They boarded the plane. He gave her the window seat and then put his briefcase on his lap. He can’t get rid of that, Dorothy thought. It must be a major nuisance.

  The stewardess came to them as soon as the plane had leveled off.

  “I’ll have a Scotch please,” Dorothy said. “Dewars, if you have it.”

  She was surprised when the nice man said he would have the same. He was obviously on duty, and he looked like the type who would not drink on duty. She was not surprised when he took a long time before taking his first tiny sip.

  “I’m very grateful to your wife,” Dorothy said. “I just couldn’t miss this airplane.”

  “I’m sure Sharon was happy to be of service.”

  “Still, I’m grateful,” she said, and for a moment she took hold of his hand. Then curiosity took her. “Your wife said she was an Army wife.”

  “A very good one,” he said. “My name is Felter. Colonel Sanford Felter.”

  He meant “Colonel,” Dorothy sensed, bird colonel. Full bird, not lieutenant colonel, although the customs of the service permitted lieutenant colonels to be addressed as “Colonel.”

  “Tom, my husband, is a lieutenant colonel. Air Force.”

  He smiled an acknowledgement.

  “You said something about POWs?” he asked.

  “Tom was shot down two years ago,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Tom was flying C-131s out of Pope when he got his orders,” she said. “They put him in A-20s when he went to ’Nam.”

  “And you stayed at Pope?” Felter asked. Pope Air Force Base, adjoining Fort Bragg, provided air transport to the 82nd Airborne Division.

  “We were living off post,” she said. “I just stayed.”

  He nodded understanding.

  “You’re stationed in Washington,” she said. “I guessed that because your wife saw you off.”

  “A little TDY at Bragg,” he said, and lifted the briefcase. “I’m in Operations Analysis.”

  Not knowing why she wanted to do it, she took her wallet from her purse, flipped it open, and showed him the picture of Tom—the last picture of Tom—standing beside his bird in a flight suit, with a pistol strapped to his side. She also had pictures of Tom, Jr. and Sue-Ann.

  “You have lovely children,” he said, and took out his own wallet (from which, she saw, judging by its looseness, he had recently removed a lot of cards and whatever) and showed her his three children and his wife.

  She had another two drinks before they began the letdown to Atlanta. She told him that her kids were going to meet the plane in Fayetteville—Tom Jr. having recently (on his sixteenth birthday) gotten his driver’s license. He told her that his oldest was at George Washington, and had just been accepted for the graduate school in foreign service. Neither of his sons wanted to follow their father into the service.

  They would have “The Atlanta Standard,” he told her: a two hours’ wait and a mile’s walk before they could reach Piedmont 108 to Fayetteville. He had a pleasant, shy, but droll sense of humor.

  When they walked into the Atlanta terminal, the public address system was asking passengers on Piedmont Flight 108 to come to the Piedmont counter in the main concourse.

  She sensed that they were about to get bad news.

  And even before it became obvious, she also sensed that the large, handsome, mustachioed Army colonel who got to his feet from one of the benches in the main concourse was looking for Colonel Felter.

  “God doesn’t love you, Mouse,” he said. “Piedmont 108 has been scratched.”

  Colonel Felter appeared to be digesting that bit of information, as he made the introduction.

  “Mrs. Sims, this is Colonel Lowell.”

  “How do you do?” Lowell said. He examined her a good deal more closely than she liked to be examined. I hope, she thought, that you find my parts satisfactorily arranged, Colonel. And I hope you don’t think you’ve caught Colonel Felter and me doing something we shouldn’t. And when he continued to examine her with growing approval, she thought: Why don’t you take out your wallet, Colonel, and show me the picture of your wife and kiddies?

  “I wonder why they didn’t tell us in Washington?” Felter asked.

  “They love to strand people in Atlanta,” Colonel Lowell said. “I’ve got a U-8, Mouse. Let’s get your luggage.”

  Colonel Lowell, she noticed, was wearing a Combat Infantry Badge, parachutist’s wings, and a pair of the starred wings of an Army Senior Aviator. Tom used to say that meant Army Aviators could tell the difference between an altimeter and a propeller. Tom didn’t think much of Army Aviators. No one in the Air Force did. All three of the metal devices were unauthorized, miniature versions of the issue qualification badges. That was kind of phony, Dorothy thought. People who wore miniatures were trying to make their qualifications seem unimportant. What they were saying was “Look what a modest, highly accomplished person I am.” She realized she didn’t like Colonel Lowell at all.

  But he was a pilot, and a U-8 was obviously an airplane, and Colonel Felter was obviously not going to be stranded in Atlanta. She wondered what she was going to do.

  “We’ll have to do something for Mrs. Sims,” Colonel Felter said. “She has to get to Fayetteville.” Lowell didn’t say anything, but Felter must have seen something on his face, for he added, “Colonel Sims is down in ’Nam, Craig.”

  His eyes lit up. Does this arrogant bastard see an opportunity in that? To give me that which I am denied by the fortunes of war?

  “Mrs. Sims is obviously a friend,” Colonel Lowell said. “And that being the case, she can come with us.”

  “Can you do that?” Felter asked, obviously surprised at the offer.

  “Sure,” Lowell said.

  “I’ll get our luggage,” Colonel Felter said.

  Colonel Lowell suddenly pursed his lips, and made a shrill, loud whistle. A skycap, who did not at all like being whistled at, came over. Colonel Lowell pulled a thick wad of money from his trousers pocket and peeled off a five dollar bill. Dorothy disliked people who carried around large sums of money (look how rich I am!). She also disliked people who whistled at waiters, skycaps, and other serv
ice types.

  “There’s a U-8,” Colonel Lowell said to the skycap, “a Beechcraft King Aire at Southern gate 34. Would you fetch the luggage and put it on it?” He turned to Felter. “I haven’t had a thing to eat since Washington. So why don’t we get Mrs. Sims to a telephone so she can contact the kiddies?”

  He looked at his watch. Dorothy was not surprised to see that he wore a three-thousand-dollar Rolex. He was the type. While his wife wore a Timex and searched the commissary meat counter for cheap hamburger, he wore a three-thousand-dollar watch and custom-made uniforms. And two-hundred-dollar nonregulation shoes. I am supposed to throw myself in his arms, weak with adoration.

  “Thirty minutes to eat, fifteen minutes to get off the ground, an hour ten in the air. Call it two hours. Have yourselves met in two hours, Mrs. Sims,” Colonel Lowell said, somewhat grandly.

  She smiled thanks, but did not trust herself to speak.

  Their luggage was aboard the airplane when they walked up to it. It was a larger airplane than she expected, with twin engines that she recognized as turboprops. The fuselage glistened, and inside it smelled new. And there were leather-trimmed seats and carpeting. A VIP transport.

  “You can ride up in front with me if you like, Mrs. Sims,” Colonel Lowell offered.

  She was about to refuse when Colonel Felter encouraged her. “Why don’t you?”

  Why not indeed? Dorothy thought. As long as she had been married to Tom, he had taken her flying only twice. Both times were in a tiny single-engined Cessna not much more than an automobile with wings. It had been the kind of airplane her father would never have flown in. In fact Dorothy had never been in the cockpit of what she thought of as a real airplane, not even of one of her father’s company airplanes. Her father regarded airplane pilots (including the one she was married to) as sort of flying chauffeurs. Deciding to take advantage of what might turn out to be her only opportunity, she followed him into the cockpit. He unbuttoned his tunic, took it off, and hung it on a hook.