by Bob Mayer
Kane took the wide steps to the fourth floor. Some of the dread had dissipated upon entering the library, a sanctuary for all cadets, where hazing was forbidden and most cadets spent as little time as possible. Kane had been an exception to that.
The large wooden door to the Archives on the top floor was locked. Kane pressed the button and waited. A few seconds later the lock clicked. Kane pushed the door and entered the climate-controlled section that held the Academy’s original documents, along with all that various distinguished graduates had bequeathed over the years. Large flat tables with drawers below them crowded the room. A number of the tables held maps, most hand-drawn. Many were the work of early graduates from when they spread out into the American west, surveying and exploring. All cadets still took drawing as a required course despite the invention of cameras and satellites. The walls were lined with shelves filled with carefully catalogued titles protected behind glass.
An older man sat at a desk in the far corner with a view of both the Plain and the Hudson River. His desk was huge, twelve feet wide by six deep. There were weights in the shape of small cannons that could be used to hold documents in place. Attached to the desk was a large magnifying glass on a long, moveable arm with a circular light built around the glass that could cover any part. At the moment, though, the surface held only a thick hardcover book.
“Good afternoon, Mister Kane.”
“Good afternoon, Mister Plaikos.”
Plaikos stood up, slightly canted left, and walked around the table, hand extended. The reason for the cant became obvious: his left leg was gone below the knee and a peg leg made of worn and pitted dark mahogany thumped on the floor. He was short and compact, well-tanned, silver-haired and looked younger than his 58 years. He wore khaki pants and shirt, and no insignia. A government employee, he held the equivalent GS pay grade of a one-star general yet received none of the homage that star garnered.
The two men shook hands and two Montagnard bracelets jangled on Plaikos’s wrist. He was from a generation before Kane, a graduate of the class of 1941. He’d joined the Infantry and chosen what was considered the plum assignment in June of that fateful year: the Philippines where the already legendary Douglas MacArthur was the Field Marshall of the Philippine Army. The plum turned rotten when the Japanese invaded.
Plaikos fought in the retreat to Corregidor and watched MacArthur ride away in the middle of a night on a PT boat, earning a Medal of Honor for the trip in the wrong direction. When MacArthur’s unlucky successor in command, Wainwright, capitulated, Plaikos initiated his long career of disobeying orders and took to the jungle along with fellow American and Filipino soldiers. For four long years they’d fought a guerilla war, learning blood lessons as they went, often at the cost of lives.
Instead of returning to the Regular Army once the Philippines were liberated, he was recruited by Wild Bill Donovan into the OSS—Office of Strategic Services. From there, he’d matriculated into the fledgling CIA and established a career traveling around the world, wherever his hard-earned insurgency skills were required. That career ended in 1961 when an Air America plane was shot down in Vietnam and his left leg crushed in the crash. That was as much of his story that Kane had been able to glean from him over the course of four years and numerous hours in the quiet of the Archives. Plaikos was a man who’d done much, but said little about those endeavors.
Plaikos returned behind his desk and sat down. Kane took a seat on the side of the desk.
“What can I do for you, Mister Kane? I was pleasantly surprised by your phone call. It’s been a long time, but I find your rare visits interesting. Do you need me to retrieve something you’ve dispatched for safekeeping? You understand, of course, that the material is not at hand and would require some time to retrieve.”
“No, sir. I need your expertise on a certain matter.”
Plaikos tapped the book. “I was perusing this. A rather intriguing tale about covert operations in the Second World War, mainly focusing on British and American work in Europe. I had no experience in that theater during the war, but met quite a few of the players, those that survived, afterward.” He lifted the book so Kane could see the cover. Bodyguard of Lies.
“Good title, sir,” Kane said.
“From a quote by Churchill,” Plaikos said. “’In wartime truth must always be attended by a bodyguard of lies’. Very appropriate.” He marked the page with an index card and closed it. “The author draws some intriguing conclusions and some not quite accurate ones. The irony is that some of what is written is part of that very bodyguard, misinformation and cover stories designed to hide what actually happened. Nevertheless, a worthwhile read and insight into some nasty business. That is the way history is recorded.” Plaikos returned to the reason for Kane’s appearance. “So. What might I help you with?”
“I had a visit on Saturday from your former organization, sir,” Kane said. “Trent wanted me to be his asset.”
“Phil King’s errand boy,” Plaikos said. “King and I crossed paths over the years.”
“He mentioned King, sir,” Kane said. “Called him the Gray Ghost.”
“That can be taken several different ways,” Plaikos said. “I met King in Berlin before the blockade and we were there during the Airlift. We were trying to establish our networks in the east.” Plaikos shook his head. “I sometimes believe the Airlift was our greatest post-war moment. You should have seen it, Mister Kane. I give those flyboys all the credit they deserve. True heroes. They had that running like a machine. I wish I could say as much for the Agency’s efforts. What kind of asset?”
“He talked about the United Nations but his focus was Wall Street and money, sir. He said that was the key to everything.”
“That’s true. I never met Trent although I checked into him because of your dust up in ‘Nam. He did field work in Central and South America, then shifted to Vietnam when that heated up, as many of us did. But he was in-country after my time.”
“I appreciate everything you did, sir,” Kane said. “And still do for me.”
“I didn’t do much,” Plaikos lied. “An operator like King needs a person willing to take the slings and arrows as his front man. He’s DCO now.” Plaikos paused. “You know, it just occurred to me that the saying should be slings and bows or stones and arrows, otherwise it’s inconsistent. Either the weapon or the projectile. Ah well. Trent does the dirty work that King can’t sully his hands with, such as testify at your trial. I assume you turned him down?”
“Yes, sir. But I don’t think it’s the last I’m going to be hearing from the Agency. Trent said they have me flagged.”
“What popped the flag?” Plaikos asked.
“A little trouble with the NYPD, sir,” Kane said. “The cops ran my name through the FBI criminal database. Trent said they picked it off that. He mentioned readers and computers and that the movie Three Days of the Condor was relatively accurate.”
Plaikos folded his hands together on the desk. “Interesting. What specifically do you want to know?”
“How much trouble can Trent, and the Agency, cause me? They already destroyed my career in the Army, although Trent mentioned being able to erase the dishonorable.”
“I don’t see why the Agency would go out of its way to cause you further problems,” Plaikos said. “The flag popped and Trent saw an opportunity to recruit an experienced asset. It’s standard procedure to exploit a potential’s problems. Unless you cause the Agency trouble, they’d have no reason to continue. In fact, there are aspects of your Vietnam experience with them that they’d like to keep quiet, so you do have leverage.” Plaikos smiled. “Which, of course, you already know since you sent your files and recollections about Phoenix, Gamma, Countersign, and other applicable data to me for safe-keeping.”
“Trent doesn’t know all that, sir,” Kane pointed out. “Especially Countersign. At least, I hope he doesn’t. That op was kept tight.”
“Forget about Trent. Phil King would assume you’ve prote
cted yourself on the back end. In fact, he might not be happy that Trent kicked a quiet hornet’s nest.”
“He said King sent him and sent his regards.”
“That doesn’t mean he spoke the truth,” Plaikos pointed out. “If I was in King’s position, I would know you’ve covered yourself,” Plaikos said. “I think you’ll be fine with your answer to Trent. Unless, of course, you wish to have your discharge changed? It was a miscarriage of justice.”
“I’d be trading one problem for another, sir,” Kane said.
“Likely.” Plaikos nodded. “You’ve gotten a bit wiser with the years, Mister Kane. You’re not the same young man I found wandering lost in the stacks as a plebe, but life has a way of forcing us into maturity. A handful actually learn from their experiences and I’m glad to see you have.”
“Thank you, sir. I just wanted to double-check.”
“Anything else?”
“That was it, sir.” Kane put his hands on the arms of the chair to get up, but paused. “Can I ask you something?”
Plaikos nodded.
“Why did you talk to me the first time?” Kane asked. “Most plebes come to the library to ghost. Catch a nap in some corner.”
“True,” Plaikos said. “But you were doing more than ghosting. You were actually searching the stacks. And reading. I observed you for a while. On top of that, you were checking out books that weren’t mandatory for a course assignment, which is most unusual. A considerable amount of nonfiction. Your array of interests was intriguing. It seemed as if your mind sought enlightenment beyond the rigid mental walls the Academy drops around cadets. Very few of your fellows avail themselves of the treasures in this building.”
Kane smiled. “I have a friend you should meet, sir. He was a reporter for the Post. He speaks of the main branch of the New York Public Library with the same reverance.”
“Reporters and spies, ex-spies, are not that different,” Plaikos said. He changed the subject. “Did you see the split-tails?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“The female New Cadets,” Plaikos said.
“I saw some out there.”
“What do you think about it?”
Kane shrugged. “It was inevitable, sir.”
“Lots of old grads are up in arms,” Plaikos said. “Class of ’79’s motto is LCWB—which ostensibly stands for loyalty, courage, wisdom and bravery but is actually last class with balls.”
“Yes, sir.”
Plaikos laughed. “You don’t know how I feel about it, so you’re withholding your opinion, aren’t you? Afraid you might piss me off?”
“I imagine it’s a sensitive subject around here, sir,” Kane said.
“Some things you have to take a stand on,” Plaikos said. “But your answer is correct. It was inevitable, it’s the law, and that is that. Some professors stood against the inevitable and they are no longer with us.”
“How do you really feel about it, sir?”
“When I was in the jungle in the Philippines,” Plaikos said, “the women who were with us fought as well the men. And they died the same as the men. I imagine female graduates will do the same. The Army isn’t very popular right now, Kane. With the cheating scandal last year, the Academy suffered a black eye. We need the best, whatever the gender.”
“Yes, sir.”
Plaikos teetered to his feet. “Are you going to pay your respects?”
Kane stood. “Yes, sir.”
“They should make the cemetery part of the recruiting tour,” Plaikos said as he limped Kane out. “That would be a dose of reality. My class earned the moniker Black ’41 for our miscarriages of etiquette while cadets, but it fits what happened to a number of my comrades after graduation. Many suffered and died on the Death March and then the poor souls who survived that ordeal drowned in POW ships sunk by our own planes. They rot in unmarked graves in the jungle or on the bottom of the ocean, not in the cemetery.” He hit a button and the door swung open. “Tell me one thing. Do you miss it?”
“The Army?” Kane shook his head. “No, sir. They used me and threw me away.”
“Interesting,” Plaikos said. “Good luck, Mister Kane.”
Kane was in a quiet zone on the main post, shielded from activity by the solemn presence of death. The West Point national cemetery is on a river bluff, surrounded by a stone wall and thick hedges. The Hudson, hundreds of feet below, flows southward toward Manhattan, fifty miles away.
Soldiers from every war in U.S. history are buried here, beginning with the Revolution. The small Cadet Chapel from 1836 was moved here stone by stone when the larger, newer one was built on a hill overlooking the Academy. It’s composed of dark stone and fronted by white Ionic columns. The interior walls are covered with marble shields, each memorializing a general from the Revolution. One, emplaced choir left, nearly hidden from sight, has the name scratched out, leaving Major General ------ Born 1740. The only vestige of the man who commanded the key Army post here during the Revolution and attempted to sell the plans for its defenses to the British: Benedict Arnold.
As was his habit, Kane diverted from a direct path to his destination to walk on the grave purportedly containing Custer’s remains, although who knew what had been scavenged off the Little Big Horn battlefield after the bodies had been scattered and reduced to bone by carrion? A white obelisk marked the spot, where his widow, Libbie, keeper and spreader of his flame of infamy, had been laid to rest in 1933.
Killed With His Entire Command in the Battle of the Little Big Horn, June 25, 1876.
That wasn’t true. Half the Seventh Cavalry, under the command of Reno and Benteen, had fought off repeated assaults for a night and day after Custer went down, and most of their troopers survived. ‘When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’ The line from the The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance applied to everything at West Point. The cemetery is beautiful, meticulously maintained, a celebration to the concept of duty, honor and country.
There was a slight breeze from the north, along the Hudson, between Storm King Mountain and Cold Springs on the other side of the river. It was hot and humid, the thick air weighing on Kane as he walked toward the northern quadrant, a four pack of Harp beer in hand. Birds chattered and cars passed a hundred yards away on Washington Road.
Kane approached a large stone pyramid mausoleum twenty feet high, guarded by a pair of stone sphinxes. The resting place of General Viele, class of 1847, and his wife. Viele had shown some concern in his death plans as he’d had a buzzer wired from the interior of the mausoleum to the Superintendent’s quarters so he could be rescued if accidently entombed while still alive. On the more practical side, Kane owned a print of the Viele Sanitary & Topographical Map of the City and Island of New York, something he’d been directed to study by Brother Benedict. Besides his military service in Mexico and the Civil War, Viele had been Commissioner of Parks for the City and his map was a basis for designing Central Park.
Kane admired Viele’s unfounded optimism about the buzzer. Kane was, of course, putting off the task. To the left of Viele’s pyramid was Section XXXIV, where Ted and others from the Vietnam era lay.
A row of markers, a number of them the standard Government Issue white stone, 24 inches tall, formed the rows. These were the majority of the thirty members of the Class of 1966 killed in Vietnam who had chosen the Academy as their final resting place. Eight classmates had reported to the 173rd Airborne and been involved in the battles at Dak To over the course of 1967. Four were killed. Kane and one other were wounded.
Kane sat cross-legged in front of a marker. He opened a bottle of beer and poured it onto the grave, the parched ground and struggling grass absorbing it. He took a deep draught from the other one, then emptied it too.
“Irish beer, Ted. You gave me shit about it. A four pack. Said it summed up the Irish. Couldn’t even get a six pack right.”
THEODORE
JOSEPH
MARCELLE
NEW YORK
CLASS OF 1966 U
SMA
A CO. 2/503RD INF
VIETNAM
SEPTEMBER 29, 1944
22 JUNE 1967
The breeze picked up. Kane’s nose wrinkled at the foul odor. “They put our class close to the sewage treatment plant, Ted. You’d like that. Remember the two-mile run test? The turnaround at the plant?”
Two cadets in gray pants and starched white shirts were walking through the cemetery, taking a short cut from the PX. They saw him, paused, and angled away, avoiding a possible future truth, living or dead.
Even though Kane and Ted had been assigned different companies in the Corp at the end of Beast Barracks, they’d maintained their friendship, even visiting as plebes, venturing into each other’s companies. This was an ultimate sign of plebe comradeship, daring to foray into the hostile environ of a different company as an unknown beanhead. Each had spent many hours over that plebe year braced against a wall being hazed by upperclassmen, just yards away from the safety of their friend’s room. Once that first year ended, it was easier to spend time together.
Kane reached out and traced his fingers over the letters and numbers carved in the stone. “We thought we were on the side of the angels, Ted. Turns out we weren’t. But I hope you’re with them now. I don’t believe they exist, but if they do, know you’re with them. The Academy prepared us for what it thought was everything. But there’s some things it left out, Ted. Two in particular. They didn’t teach us about losing. We were convinced we were always right, all the time, and always going to win. And they didn’t teach us about evil.”
There was no buzzer wired from Ted’s grave.
Kane poured the last two beers for Ted.
The Corps
They are here in ghostly assemblage.
The men of the Corps long dead.
And our hearts are standing attention, while we wait for their passing tread.
