A round robin was a flight that began and ended, after one or more intermediate stops, at the same place. Cross-country meant what it sounded like. RON stood for “Remain Over Night.”
“Oh, you speak aviation?” he said.
“My father is an aviator, you might recall.”
“Now that you mention it…”
She shook her head.
He went on: “Lieutenant Miller is also on that recruiting flight. Remember him? You met him, briefly—”
“Recruiting flight?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“What they do when these splendid young fledgling birdmen are about to finish their course of instruction and graduate—”
“Randy graduates next Friday,” she offered. “We’ll be married on Sunday at three in Chapel One.”
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” Castillo said. “As I was saying, when they are about to finish, they schedule one of those cross-country, round-robin RON training flights you mention, with stops at Forts Benning, Stewart, and—depending on the weather—either Knox or Bragg.
“Eight or ten—for that matter, two—Apaches coming in for a landing is a sight that will impress young officers. Some of these fledgling birdmen will even be bright enough to extrapolate from that that driving one such machine, and getting flight pay to do so, would seem to be a far smarter way to serve one’s country than mucking about in the mud, etcetera, as they are doing. They then apply for flight training. This is called recruiting. Hence the term ‘recruiting flights.’”
“I almost believe that.”
“Miss Wilson, there is no limit to what terrible things certain people will do to further Army Aviation.”
She looked at him for a moment before smiling again.
“Well, anyway,” she said, “you don’t have to worry about Randy bursting through your door. He called me from Fort Stewart about an hour ago.”
“And suggested you come over here and say ‘hi’ if you were bored?”
“God, you just don’t stop, do you?”
“Are we back to the apology, or have I said something that’s changed your mind?”
“You’re making it hard, but I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Are you familiar with Ed McMahon, the entertainer, Miss Wilson?”
“Can you call me ‘Beth’?”
“Obviously, I can. The questions would seem to be Will I? and/or Why should I?”
“Because it would make things easier for me. And, yes, I know who McMahon is. Why?”
“Because, Beth—”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Beth. Mr. McMahon said that drink is God’s payment for hard work. And as I’ve worked hard all day—”
“Doing what?”
“I spent three hours in an Apache and two-thirty in a Mohawk. Thank you for your interest. As I was saying, I worked hard all day, and in the shower I was planning to accept my just pay the moment I was dry. But then you started bonging at my door. So, what I am going to do now, while you rehearse your apology, is make myself a drink.”
“All right.”
He went to the wet bar, took out a silver set of martini-making necessities from the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, and very seriously set about constructing himself a martini in the manner practiced by and passed on to him by Brigadier General Bruce J. McNab.
This involved, among other things, rinsing out both the martini mixer and the martini glass with vermouth before adding a precisely measured hefty amount of Gilbey’s gin to the ice in the mixer. He then stirred the mixture precisely one hundred times before pouring it into two large, long-stemmed martini glasses and adding two pickled onions on a toothpick to each.
He took one of the martinis, very carefully placed it in the freezer, and gently closed the freezer door. Then, carefully carrying the other martini, he walked to the couch and sat down as far away from Beth Wilson as the couch would permit.
He brought the glass to his lips, looked at her over the rim, and said, “You may begin the apology.”
Then he took his first sip.
“Where’s mine?” she said.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“You are not going to offer me a drink? After that long Ed McMahon speech?”
“‘What work did you do today?’ is one question that pops to mind,” Castillo said.
“I told you, I’m getting married on Sunday. I spent all day—with half a dozen giggling women—getting ready.”
“I can see where that would be tiring,” Castillo said. “The next question is a little delicate. Your father—”
“My father has a problem with alcohol,” she said. “Something about his metabolism. My mother and I don’t.”
“And you want a martini?”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I happened to notice you made two.”
“There is a reason for that. You know what they say about martinis.”
“I’ll bet you’re about to tell me.”
“Martinis are like a woman’s breasts,” Castillo said, solemnly. “One is not enough, and three is too many.”
“My God! That’s disgusting! I can’t believe you said that to me!”
She could not, however hard she tried, completely restrain the smile that came to her face.
“I made two because I planned to drink two,” Castillo said. “The idea of making one for you never entered my mind.”
“Well, now that it has, are you going to give me one?”
“I’m not sure that would be wise.”
“Why not?”
“Well, if a couple of belts puts your father on a bicycle, there’s no telling what one martini would do to you,” Castillo said. And then his mouth went on autopilot: “You might, for example, tear off your clothes and throw yourself into my arms.”
She looked at him incredulously for a moment, then got off the couch and walked to the refrigerator, commenting en route, “Don’t hold your breath! My God! You’re an absolute lunatic.”
She took the second martini out of the freezer and carried it back to the couch. She extended it to him.
“Let’s start over, okay?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
They tapped glasses. Both took a sip.
“I came here, Castillo—”
“I call you Beth and you call me Castillo? Is that the way to commence an apology?”
“I came here, Charley…”
“Better,” he said.
“…to apologize for my behavior at my house on Saturday…”
“And well you should. You nearly reduced poor Dick Miller to tears. He’s very sensitive.”
She shook her head, took another sip of the martini, and went doggedly on: “…and to ask a favor.”
“Well, that certainly explains why you felt you needed a drink. Asking a favor—much less apologizing—to the likes of me has to be very difficult for someone like you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You are a general’s daughter. You are not the first general’s daughter I…have encountered.”
“Randy told me about her,” Beth said.
“Well, I’m sure that was fascinating. Did he manage to suggest that my behavior was ungentlemanly?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Well, my conscience is clear. From Day One I made it absolutely clear to Daphne that I had no intention of marching up the aisle of the cadet chapel with her the day after I graduated.”
“Daphne? Randy said her name was Jennifer.”
“Same story. Jennifer was before Daphne, but I made it perfectly clear to her, too, that if she was looking for a husband, she was looking in the wrong place.”
“Oh, you’re not only a sonofabitch, but you’re proud of being a sonofabitch!”
“No. As I said before, I am a bastard, not a sonofabitch.”
“I know why you and Randy don’t get alon
g.”
“I don’t think so, but what does it matter? I accept your apology. Now, what’s the favor you want?”
“I can’t believe you drank that already,” she said.
“Here is the proof,” he said, holding the martini glass upside down. “And now I am going to have to make myself another, having let chivalry get in the way of my common sense.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I gave you my second martini,” he said.
He got up and walked to the wet bar.
“You may ask me the favor,” he said, as he went to the freezer for another frozen glass.
There were two glasses in the freezer. He looked at them a long moment, and then took both out.
That would seem to prove that I am indeed the sonofabitch that she thinks—and Dick knows—I am.
But not to worry. Virtue will triumph.
If I so much as lightly touch her shoulder, she will throw the martini in my face and then kick me with practiced skill in the scrotum.
He set about making a second duo of dry martini cocktails according to the famous recipe of Brigadier General Bruce J. McNab.
Beth came across the room to where he stood.
He looked at her and then away.
“You might as well go sit back down,” he said, stirring the gin-and-ice mixture. “You have had your ration of martinis.”
“My family likes, really likes, your family,” Beth said. “That was all they talked about at breakfast.”
“And my family likes your family. Since both families are extraordinarily nice people, why does that surprise you?”
“My mother and father are going to San Antonio. Did you know that?”
“Abuela told me.”
“Abuela?”
“My grandmother. Doña Alicia.”
“Why do they call her that?”
“They don’t call her Abuela. Fernando and I do. It means ‘grandmother’ in Spanish. They call our abuela ‘Doña Alicia’ as a mark of respect.”
“I’m going to marry Randy,” she said.
“I seem to recall having heard that somewhere.”
“That will make Randy part of my family.”
“Yeah, I guess it will.”
“What I would like to do is patch things up between you and Randy.”
“There’s not much chance of that, Beth,” he said seriously, and their eyes met again.
He averted his quickly, and very carefully poured the two glasses full.
“Starting with you being part of our wedding,” she said.
“Not a chance.”
“There’s going to be an arch of swords outside the chapel. I’m sure Randy—you’re classmates—would love to have you be one of the…whatever they’re called.”
“Beth, for Christ’s sake, no. I can’t stand the sonofabitch.”
“I thought you didn’t use that term. You preferred ‘bastard.’”
“I didn’t say I preferred it. I said that I wasn’t a sonofabitch because my mother was the antithesis of a bitch.”
He met her eyes again, averted them, picked up his martini glass, and took a healthy swallow.
“But you don’t mind being called a bastard?”
“I am a bastard,” he said, meeting her eyes. “There’s not much I can do about it.”
“A bastard being defined as someone who is hardheaded? Arrogant? Infuriating? And revels in it?”
“A bastard is a child born out of wedlock,” Castillo said.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Your parents weren’t married?”
He shook his head.
He said: “The estimates vary that between fifty thousand and one hundred fifty thousand children were born outside the bonds of holy matrimony to German girls and their American boyfriends—some of whom were general officers. I am one of those so born. I’m a lot luckier than any of the others I’ve run into, but I’m one of them.”
“Because of your father, you mean?”
“No. Because of my mother. My father was only in at the beginning, so to speak. Because of my mother. My mother was something special.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Possibly in the hope that it will send you fleeing before this situation gets any more out of hand than it is.”
“I want to hear this,” she said. “Does my father know?”
“Your father is a very intelligent man. He’s probably put it all together by now. Or your mother has. Or Abuela told them.”
He took another sip of his martini.
As Beth watched, she said, “That’s your second you’re gulping down, you know.”
“I can count. And as soon as you leave, I will have the third.”
“I’m not leaving until you tell me. What happened?”
“When my father finished flight school, they sent him to Germany, rather than straight to Vietnam. They tried to do that, send kids straight from flight school over there. The idea was that they would build some hours, be better pilots when they got into combat. And while he was in Germany he met a German girl, and here I am.”
“The sonofabitch!” Beth exploded.
“No. Now you’re talking about his madre—my Abuela—and she is indeed another who is the antithesis of bitch.”
“He…made your mother pregnant and then just left? I don’t care if you like it or not, that makes him a sonofabitch in my book. Oh, Charley, I’m so sorry.”
“Hold the pity,” he said. “For one thing, we don’t know that he behaved dishonorably. For one thing, he didn’t know she was pregnant. He did promise her he would write, and then never did. It is entirely possible that had he written, and had she been able to reply that she was in the family way, he would have done something about it. I like to think that’s the case. Genes are strong, and he was my grandparents’ son. But he didn’t write, he didn’t know, and we’ll never know whether or not he would have gone back to Germany when he came home from Vietnam”—he drained his martini glass—“because he didn’t come back from Vietnam.”
“Your poor mother,” Beth said. “How awful for her.”
“And it’s not as if my mother had to go scrub floors or stand under Lili Marlene’s streetlamp to feed her bastard son,” Castillo said, just a little thickly. “She was the eighteen-year-old princess in the castle, who’d made a little mistake that no one dared talk about.
“Her father, my grandfather, was a tough old Hessian. He was a lieutenant colonel at Stalingrad. He was one of the, quote, lucky ones, unquote—the really seriously wounded who were evacuated just before it fell. He was also an aristocrat. The family name is von und zu Gossinger. Not just ‘von’ and not just ‘zu.’ Both. That sort of thing is important in the Almanac de Gotha.”
“You sound as if you didn’t like him,” she said.
“Actually, I liked him very much. He was kind to me. What I think now is that he wasn’t all that unhappy that an American, a Mexican-American with a name like Jorge Castillo, had not come back to further pollute the von und zu Gossinger bloodline.”
He met her eyes again, quickly averted them again, and reached for the other full martini glass. She snatched it away before his hand touched it.
“You’ve had enough,” she said.
“That decision is mine, don’t you think?” Castillo asked, not very pleasantly.
She glowered at him. Then she put the glass to her mouth and drained it.
“Not anymore, it’s not,” she said.
“You’re out of your mind. You’ll pass out.”
“Finish the story,” she said.
“How the hell am I going to get you home?”
“Finish the story,” she repeated.
“That’s it.”
“How did you wind up in San Antonio?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
He shrugged. “Well, my grandfather and my uncle Willi went off a bridge on the autobahn, and that left my mo
ther and me alone in the castle.”
“Why didn’t your mother try to get in contact with your father?”
“When he didn’t write or come back as he promised, I guess she decided he didn’t want to. And I suspect that my grandfather managed to suggest two or three thousand times that it was probably better that he hadn’t. I just don’t know.”
“How did you get to San Antonio?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, you’ve heard that good luck comes in threes?”
“Of course.”
“A year or so after my grandfather and uncle Willi went off the bridge, my mother was diagnosed with a terminal case of pancreatic cancer.”
“Oh, God!”
“At that point, my mother apparently decided that wetback Mexican relatives in Texas would be better than no family at all for the soon-to-be orphan son. So she went to the Army, which had been running patrols along the East/West German border fence on our land. She knew a couple of officers, one of them a major named Allan Naylor.”
“General Naylor?” she asked.
When Castillo nodded, she added, “He’s a friend of my father’s.”
“I am not surprised,” Castillo said. “Anyway, Naylor was shortly able to tell her the reason that my father had not come back as promised was because he was interred in the National Cemetery in San Antonio.” He paused, then—his voice breaking—added: “So at least she had that. It wasn’t much, but she had that.”
Beth saw tears forming. Her own watered.
He turned his face from hers and coughed to get his voice under control.
He then asked, “If I take a beer from the cooler, are you going to snatch it away from me and gulp it down?”
“No,” she said softly, almost in a whisper.
He took a bottle of Schlitz from the refrigerator and twisted off the cap. As he went to take a swig, raising it to his mouth, he lost enough of his balance so that he had to quickly back up against the counter.
Without missing a beat, he went on, “So…so one day Major Allan Naylor shows up in San Antonio, nobly determined to protect as well as he can the considerable assets the German kid is about to inherit from the natural avarice of the wetback family into which the German bastard is about to be dumped.”
“Oh, Charley!”
“My grandfather was in New York on business, so Naylor had to deliver the news to Doña Alicia that WOJG Jorge Castillo had left a love child behind in Germany.”
The Shooters Page 11
