The Aviators

by W. E. B Griffin

  He knew he was eventually going to have to do. something about all that, to force the Issue, and takec care of his rights not to ,mention his money. He was sure, however, that doing it, bringing it all into the open, would probably mean a screaming scene and a visit to a lawyer. And the ,idea of taking his sister into court over money was unpleasant. She, had, after all, raised him.

  But not now, he thought (he was at the moment dressing in the bedroom of room seven). Not yet. Sufficient to the day is the bullshit thereof And besides, screw it, it'll wait. And they'll wait.

  And it was always easier to think about more pleasant subjects-such as Marjorie Bellmon. Why isn't she my sister, he thought, instead of that bitch? But then, what the hell. Marjorie doesn't have to be my sister for us to like one another. I don't have to want to love her, or make love to her, just because I'm a man and sheâ(tm)s a girl. There is nothing wrong having a friend who happens to be of the other gender.

  And he knew for certain that Marjorie was going to be a friend, just as her mother was becoming. It had taken Oliver about three days to figure out that Marjorie was just like what her mother must have been like at that age. He remembered, in this regard; some sage advice from a crusty old retired master sergeant at Norwich: "Before you rush to the altar with some dame, take a long hard look at her mother; that's what yours will look and act like in twenty years." Oliver was sure he would never be rushing up to the altar with Marjorie

  Bellmon. But she was a terrific girl just the same. And he was glad they were friends.

  As he let all these thoughts spin around his head, Captain John S. Oliver, for the first time wearing all the regalia of an aide-de-camp to a major general, examined his appearance in the cheap, distorting mirror on the wall of room seven.

  The cavalry sabers superimposed on a silhouette of a tank, the insignia of Armor, which he'd worn on his lapels even as a cadet at Norwich, had been replaced with a Federal Shield, at the top of which were two stars, representing the rank of the general officer he was now expected to rob dogs for.

  A golden rope, called an aiguillette, hung from his' blouse epaulet-apparently intended, he thought just a bit cynically, to tell those who didn't know what an aide's lapel insignia was that he was something special.

  Just now, Oliver was about to fly to Fort Devens, Massachusetts, where General Bellmon was being forced to attend a post commanders' conference. Captain Jerry Thomas was going partway with them during that trip. On their way back they would drop him off in North Carolina, near his home.

  From the moment Thomas got out of the airplane, Johnny would assume responsibility as General Bellmon's aide.

  His self-examination in the distorting mirror was interrupted by a knock at his door. It was the General's driver, picking him up before they went to fetch the General at his quarters.

  He took one last look and walked out of the room.

  [FOUR]

  The United States Military Academy West Point, New York

  18 December 1963

  Captain John S. Oliver, newly appointed' aide-de-camp to Major General Robert F. Bellmon, inquired of the nurse on duty the location of Cadet Captain Robert F. Bellmon, and was directed to the third door from the end of the corridor on the right.

  Oliver walked down the highly polished linoleum and pushed the door open without knocking. He fixed the good looking young man in the bed with what he hoped. was a suitably West Point stern glower. Then, absolutely solemnly, he made the sign of the Cross, four times, once in each direction, and looked at Bobby.

  Cadet Captain Bellmon was dumbfounded. Oliver was wearing the Army Aviation Center insignia on his shoulder and the insignia of an aide-de-camp to a major general on his lapels. That should have made him his father's aide, but Bobby knew that his father's aide was Captain Jerry Thomas.

  "No questions, Mister?" the mysterious aide snapped.

  "No questions, Sir," Bobby replied.

  "You should ask questions. You can learn all kinds of interesting crap that way. For your general fund of military knowledge, Mister, that was an act of exorcism,' 'Captain Oliver said.

  "Sir?âť

  âśI'm Norwich," Oliver said, waving a hand with a school ring. "We always do that when we are surrounded by the demons of the Long Gray Line." Bobby had no idea what was going on.

  "Where did you get stuck, Mister?" Oliver demanded.

  Bobby was so surprised at the question that he blurted the truth: "Sir, in the balls." Oliver's eyebrows rose in surprise.

  "No wonder your mother was delicate about the subject," Oliver replied, and then, taut-voiced again: "At God only knows what cost to the taxpayers, Mister, the U.S. Government is trying to turn you into an officer and a gentleman.

  An officer and a gentleman, Mister, would say, 'In the scrotum, Sir.' Or, 'In the groin, Sir.' Not 'In the balls.' Try to remember that.âť

  âśYes, Sir," Bobby replied. "Sir, may I ask who you are?âť

  âśLook at all this stuff," Oliver replied, pointing to the Aviatior Center patch on his sleeve, and the golden aide-de-camp's rope, and finally to the aide's insignia. "Don't they teach you clowns anything up here? Think, Mister! Apply yourself!âť

  âśAre you my father's aide, Sir?âť

  âśCorrect. A little late, but correct. You win the all expense-paid trip to downtown Brooklyn. "

  "Sir, is my father here?âť

  âśI just left him at a post commanders' conference at Fort Devens," Oliver said. "I didn't have the foggiest idea what was- going on, so he took Jerry Thomas in with him. Jerry sends his best regards, by the way. I'm the new aide.âť

  âśBut my father sent you, Sir?âť

  âśOh, no," Oliver had said. "And I think it would be best if we kept this little chat a secret between you, me, and your mother. âś

  âśMy mother sent you?" Bobby asked, surprised.

  "No," Oliver said. "But she was worried when she heard they weren't going to let you come home for Christmas. Your uncle has not been what you could call a fountain of factual information about you, and since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I would drop by on the way home.âť

  âśSir, I don't understand.âť

  âśWell, in my solemn professional Army Aviator's judgment, our aircraft could not be trusted to cart such an august personage as your father around before I took it on a test flight. I was thus engaged, test-flying it, you see, when I happened to look out the window, and, lo and behold! there it was, the West Point School for Boys, right there below me.

  So I figured, what the hell, why not? If I didn't stay long, I probably wouldn't catch anything penicillin can't handle, and then I could go home and whisper in your mother's ear that there is absolutely nothing to those nasty rumors about you carousing with nurses instead of coming home. So here I am.âť

  âśMy father doesn't know you're here?âť

  âśOf course not. If he did, he would almost certainly ask why I didn't test-fly the bird in circles over Fort Devens.âť

  âśYou're not going to get in trouble?âť

  âśNot unless you spill the beans," Oliver replied, then asked, "They hurt?âť

  âśSir?âť

  "Your gonads, Mister. The family jewels. I see the ice bag.

  I asked if they hurt.âť

  âśYes, Sir, some. And that's not an ice bag, Sir." Oliver's eyebrows rose. "

  "Really?" he said in what could have been either awe or delight.

  "They're swollen, Sir.âť

  âśThat I have to see," Johnny Oliver had said.

  "Sir?"

  âśShow me what you have hidden under the sheet, Mister," he said.

  Very carefully" and furiously aware that his face was flushing, Bobby pulled the sheet off.

  "Fantastic!" Johnny Oliver said. "If I didn't see it with my own eyes, 1 wouldn't believe it. Purple grapefruits! How did that happen?âť

  âśSir, apparently a vein leaked.âť

  âśWould you like a souvenir?" Oliver said, and dipped in his pocket and came
out with a lenox camera. He held it up questioningly.

  "Sir, 1 don't know. . ." Bobby protested.

  "I can think of many times in your military career, Mister, where a color photograph of those outsize balls would be a great thing to have. What they call a conversation starter. Those balls should really be chronicled for posterity.âť

  Bobby was so off-balanced by this genial madman that he spoke aloud the next thing that popped into his mind: "Sir, is that the Distinguished Flying Cross?âť

  âśYou sound surprised," Oliver replied. "You didn't think they'd let some shit-for-brains six weeks out of flight school ferry your old man around, did you? What about the picture?

  Trust me. Ten years from now you'll be glad to have it.âť

  âśOK," Bobby said, throwing military courtesy out the window. "Why the hell not?" Oliver took half a dozen snapshots and then dropped the camera back in his pocket.

  "They look like they'd really hurt," he said.

  "They don't except when 1 try to walk," Bobby replied.

  "Then don't walk," Oliver said. "You need anything?

  Cigarettes, booze, anything?âť

  âśNo, Sir. Thank you. âś

  âśYou're sure? You tell me what you want and I'll smuggle it in."

  "Nothing, Sir. Thank you."

  "I'd offer to leave the film," Oliver said. "But I think they'd shit a brick if you had the PX process them. They're 'really obscene. I'll have them souped and printed by a pal of mine at Rucker and send you the prints and negatives.âť

  âśThanks."

  "And you call your mother on Christmas Eve. That's not an order, of-course, just a friendly suggestion. If you don't, I will see that photographs of your medical affliction are circulated among the Corps of Cadets. âś

  âśYes, Sir, I'll call her.âť

  âśThey give you a hint how long they'll be that way?" Oliver asked.

  "The doctors say they'll go down in a couple of days.âť

  âśI will never again say that West Pointers have no balls. I have seen absolutely spectacular proof to the contrary." Captain John S. Oliver winked at Cadet Captain Robert F. Bellmon, Jr., tossed him a mockery of a salute, and walked out of the room.

  [ONE]

  Room Seven,

  Building T-124

  Fort Rucker, Alabama

  1915 Hours 22 December 1963

  When his telephone rang-it was the one listed in the book for the Aide-de-Camp to the Commanding General-Captain John S. Olivet" had settled in for the evening-or possibly for the next two days-in his quarters.

  At noon, after he had tied up all the "loose ends of the General's Christmas Party, he had been relieved from duty and told he would not be expected to make himself available until December 26. So all that remained on 'his schedule was a vague notion that he might go to church somewhere, on either Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.

  Annex #1 of the Officers' Open Mess, a one-floor building, T-125, next to Building T-124, was the place where he normally passed a large part of his off-duty hours drinking beer 83

  and playing the pinball machine. But that, he had decided, was no place to spend the joyous Yuletide season. On such occasions, the patrons, mostly young lieutenants and warrants who for some reason had not been able to get Christmas leave, were prone to partake freely of intoxicants, and this sometimes resulted in chairs (or lieutenants) being thrown through windows.

  When summoned to suppress blithe spirits in Annex #1, the first question the MP-Military Police Officer of the Day-asked was almost invariably, "Who's the senior officer in here?" Captain Oliver did not wish to respond affirmatively to that question, so he decided he would do his Christmastide drinking right here in the room.

  Therefore he had stopped by the PX and taken One Each of everything that looked reasonably interesting (or erotic) from the paperback book rack, and then from the magazine rack. After that, as sort of an emergency ration in case he didn't feel up to going to the club for breakfast, he had laid in from the canned goods counter twenty dollars worth of goodies, ranging from smoked oysters through pickled shrimp to two cans of spaghetti and meatballs. And then he had acquired from the Class VI Store two half-gallon bottles of Johnnie Walker. The Army classified intoxicating beverages as Class VI supplies. One of these was Red Label (for display and thus for visitors); the other was Black (for his personal consumption, and thus concealed in the closet). Then he had showered and dressed, more or less, in civilian clothing-a sweater and a pair of blue jeans. He had settled himself comfortably in his one armchair, having moved it so that he could both rest his feet on his bed and watch (if by some miracle there should be something worth watching) the small television sitting on top of the chest of drawers.

  "Captain Oiiver, Sir," he said to the telephone.

  "Major Picarelli, Captain, I'm the AOD." The Aerodrome Officer of the Day.

  "Yes, Sir?"

  "The tower just got a call from a civilian Cessna 3IOH," Major Picarelli said. The Cessna 310 is a twin-engine, four place aircraft. "And he wants to land here. Said it's been cleared with the General. The FaD doesn't know anything about it, and when I called Quarters One, the maid said the General's not there."

  "The General said he was going to the PX, Sir," Oliver said, which was the tactful way of saying that the General had been dragged there, kicking and screaming, by Mrs. Bellmon to do last-minute shopping.

  "Well, what should I do with the Cessna?"

  "Sir, I suggest you give him permission to land. I'll come out there and see what it's all about."

  "He's about ten minutes out."

  "I'll leave right away, Sir." The phone went dead in Oliver's ear.

  Oliver dressed quickly, replacing his blue jeans with uniform trousers. After he put his shoes back on, he slipped his arms into his overcoat; the neck of which he buttoned. If he didn't take the overcoat off, no one would ever know that he was wearing a sweater with a picture of a stag on it under the uniform overcoat.

  As he reached Base Operations, the Cessna taxied up to the transient parking area. It glistened and looked brand new.

  "Are you Captain Oliver?" a voice said at his ear. Oliver turned and found himself looking at a swarthy major wearing the AOD brassard.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "'What the hell is this all about?" Major Picarelli asked.

  "The tower just got another call. An Air Force Special Missions jet is five minutes out. They're supposed to pick up a Colonel Felter. Post locator says there's no Felter, colonel or otherwise, on the post. "

  "I really don't know, Sir," Oliver said.

  He pushed open the glass door from Base Ops to the tarmac and walked toward the Cessna as its engines died.

  As he reached the aircraft, the door opened and a small man in civilian clothes got out. He stood on the wing root and struggled into an overcoat, then reached inside the airplane and came out with a briefcase.

  Oliver walked to him.

  "Sir, I'm Captain Oliver, General Bellmon's aide. May I help you?"