by Anton Myrer
Surprised, off-balance—this man apparently never said what you expected he would—she laughed. “I don’t know—I’ve never thought much about it, I guess …”
“A daughter of the Army, without a violent opinion? I’m surprised at you … Take yourself, for instance. Your beauty, your élan, that quality of expectation—all that is nothing you acquired: it fell around you like a mantle and you wore it without thinking.”
She threw her head back. “You’ve never met me before … !”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s apparent in a moment—you have such a rich sense of enthusiasm, of life’s windy mornings—you’ve no idea how thoroughly I envy that: you just know people are going to be good all day, and that the next garden is going to contain all the golden apples … ”
“I’d better get out of the desert, then!” She started to laugh, and stopped. When he was serious the high, Indian-like cheekbones gave his long face great force. She lowered her gaze and contented herself with dancing for a few moments, careful to keep her fingers from touching his shoulder bars and tarnishing them. She didn’t know what to make of him. It was officers’ club chatter, gallant and gay, running along the edge of impertinence—and yet there was a powerful current flowing underneath it: he was reaching toward her, in a way she couldn’t quite fathom. Abruptly she said: “Are you married, Captain?”
His smile was easy and remote again. “Why do you ask?”
“I was thinking what an extraordinarily lively time of it a wife of yours would have.”
That pleased him immensely. “That’s grand—I must tell that to Emily the next time she finds fault with me … I won’t have to wait long!”
The number ended then and they drew apart and applauded. He made no move to leave her, which was surprising. The orchestra began to play “After You’ve Gone,” and the memories of France rolled back over her again. She thought of rainy nights at Savenay, with the sea wind swirling the leaves in drenched little tempests and the casements rattling, and the lonely, sepulchral murmur of the wards …
She blinked. General Pershing was dancing with Irene Keller; her fleshy, handsome face was glowing, her eyes rested on his in adoration, she was talking to him with rapid insistence. Tommy could imagine the pattern of plea and cajolery, self-deprecation and eye-fluttering adulation, all of it nicely calculated to display Bart Keller’s desires and capabilities in the most attractive light. The bitch, she muttered under her breath. Well, there was always one on every post—and there she was, doing her damnedest in the three or four minutes she had. She would do it, too—she’d nail down Schofield or the Presidio or Monroe before she was through. General Pershing was entranced with her.
To turn the subject from herself Tommy said: “It was nice of the General to come down here into the wilds to visit us poor beggars in red.”
Massengale’s expression changed—he was again dispassionate, reflective, astute. “The Chief likes to break precedent now and then,” he said evenly, watching Pershing and the Keller woman for a moment. “He feels it keeps people on their toes. We’ve covered a lot of ground on this trip. No post is less important to him than any other. We can’t all sit on the right hand of the throne—but they also serve who only crawl through the cactus and the thistles.”
She cocked her head; his long, pale face wore a mournful smile. “Still, you’ll admit there are more exciting places to serve, Captain.”
“Yes indeed. I don’t believe in bromides when the facts are quite the reverse. However, the Chief holds that the good officer goes where he is assigned, and gives the best of which he’s capable. But of course you know that as well as anyone here, don’t you?”
She started to make a rather sharp retort—references to her Army upbringing had begun to irritate her increasingly—but his expression was friendly, sympathetic, quite guileless. She moved easily in his arms, following his lead, conscious of this undercurrent of excitement he had struck off in her. Being in his company, listening to him, you thought of power, of the rush of great events: barricades, and cabinets falling, and proclamations to cheering crowds from somber marble balconies … He will go far, she thought, watching the proud, ascetic discipline in his face, the strange amber eyes. He will become Chief of Staff, if events follow a logical course; or even if they don’t. Yet—her eyes rested for the briefest second on his ribbons—he had no combat decorations; the French, Belgian and Italian ribbons were what a competent—a very competent—staff officer would get, if somebody in a position of influence was there to get them for him …
“Yes, I believe in serving where I’m assigned, too,” he was saying. Quick as her glance had been, he had intercepted it. “I’ve always thought the post of military attaché to our London embassy would be just about the sweetest cream puff of them all. However, there’s a rumor that the man in that most delicious spot would prefer to be back in Washington … Life is a curious thing, isn’t it? When I was seven—”
He broke off, disengaging himself so dexterously she started; looking up she saw General Pershing’s squared, solid face, flushed now with dancing and the warmth of the club.
“You can’t have all the young, beautiful ones to yourself, you know, Massengale,” the General said.
Tommy stared at him. He was going to dance with her: the General of the Armies, guest of honor at a formal dance-reception, had decided to dance with the wife of a lowly first lieutenant. She was conscious of a frieze of astonished, delighted, outraged faces at the edges of her vision. This simply wasn’t done. But Black Jack Pershing was going to do it.
“It was merely a reconnaissance, sir,” Massengale was saying without a trace of surprise. “I was about ready to report in.”
The General laughed quietly, and stepped off with her. “Decided to dispense with protocol,” he informed her. “No reason the young fellows should have all the fun.—I can’t stand women who have no sense of rhythm,” he said sternly. “No excuse for it.”
“You’ve certainly surrounded yourself with some exceptional officers, General.” It was the first thought that had come into her head. Everyone in the place seemed to be watching them. Colonel Pownall had stopped dancing entirely and was staring at them, his mouth open.
“What? Massengale? Yes, he’s first rate. I’m very pleased with him. Wonderful balance of forcefulness and tact. Just what I needed on that damned Peruvian mission … ” His face turned rock hard at some recollection, then brightened again. “Tell me about your father, my dear.” They chatted for a while; the orchestra was playing “Chérie,” and Pershing now and then hummed a phrase of the refrain. Tommy felt like shrieking with laughter. She had the General all to herself now until he left her: no one in the armed forces of the Western World would dare to cut in on him.
“And what about that mustang of yours? How’s he getting along?”
“Oh, splendidly, sir! He’s so enthusiastic …” She heard the trill in her voice, and was irritated by it. She hated women who fluttered and gushed around general officers—she remembered what her father had once said about Army wives always acting as though a general were going to exercise some eerie droit de seigneur at any moment. “It’s just his whole life, and you can’t say any more than that.”
“A fine lad. Fine. A fighter! The very spirit of the AEF. What a feel for troops! To lead, to lead, not to drive—there’s the essence of command, my dear.”
“Yes, that’s so true … The only trouble is, he keeps neglecting me.” And she smiled mischievously, to give him a clue.
“No! I’ll have him on the carpet at oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. What are the charges and specifications?”
“He’s forever studying on his own, nights and Sundays, when he hasn’t got the duty. It’s incredible—military history and ballistics, and do you know, he’s taught himself French and Spanish all by himself? so he can read it and speak it?”
“Has he really?” The General beamed. “I worked nights to get my law degree when I was training cadets at Lincol
n … Gad, I hope his French is better than mine. I remember at Bombon I tried to have a conversation with General DuMaurasque’s little girl—she was six or seven—and I got off what I thought was a splendid sentence. She stared back at me without one glimmer of response. I bent down and said, ‘Comprenez vous, mademoiselle?’ She shook her head and told me: ‘Non.’”
Tommy laughed: she could understand why women thought Black Jack Pershing attractive. But “Chérie” wasn’t going to last forever. “No. Sam’s steady as a rock, General. I’m the one that’s worried, actually. I’m afraid I’m hurting his career.” This time she did not smile mischievously.
“Why’s that, my dear?”
“Because of Poppa, sir. I’m afraid there’s a lot of talk about Sam marrying me to further himself, and so on. Of course it’s utter rot, but it can’t help him any.”
The Iron Commander’s eyes glinted. “I know. They said the same things when I married Helen. Let them talk. It keeps them busy when they get tired of pushing papers around. There’s only one thing that matters anyway, and that’s when the country is threatened.”
“I know, sir, if only it doesn’t prejudice people against him. He deserves so much …” And then she decided to risk it. “He feels he’s missed out on so much, General, not getting to the Point. He was accepted, you know, for the following year, but he was so anxious to get into the Army he enlisted, that was in ’16—he was with you in Mexico, I guess you know that. But he feels he’s missed so much in terms of schooling, the balance of theory and practice—the kind of thing that Benning would give him, the company commanders’ course ….”
The General’s eyes seemed to veil slightly—for a second she was afraid she’d gone too far; then he nodded, his mouth firm under the neatly trimmed mustache. “He ought to go to Benning. He certainly ought to go.”
“He’d really respond to it, sir. Not that he’d ever mention it himself, he’s happy to be serving anywhere he’s sent …”
The number was drawing to a close. Sergeant Kinch’s horn was nicely weaving the plaintive little melody.
“Well,” Pershing said. “We’ll have to give it some thought.—What’s this I hear about you shooting a dozen rampaging diamondbacks with a forty-five?”
“Oh, that—that was strictly in line of duty, sir!”
The number ended. The First of the Doughboys stepped back and bowed and moved off in the direction of Harriet Jamieson; a member of his staff, a captain named Coleman, asked her for the next dance. She felt thrilled and overwarm and nervous drifting about under the orange petals of the lanterns—she was talking much too rapidly. I danced to “Chérie” with General Pershing, she thought; if nothing else ever comes of it, I can tell my grandchildren that.
Hours later, back in their quarters, undressing, she said: “That fellow Massengale—he’s extraordinary, isn’t he?”
Sam was drawing off his puttees. “Yes, he’s pretty impressive.”
“We danced two numbers. What’s his background, do you know?”
“I’m not sure. Amherst, I think, or Williams—one of those exclusive rich men’s colleges. Then the Point. Class of ’17. Marv Hansen says he comes from a wealthy family in New York State.”
“How’d you meet him?”
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Oh, he was coming up with some changes in orders and he got lost. We were just coming out of the line.”
She watched him. “That was all?”
“Well, no.” He grinned at her. “Some of the boys were a little casual with him—or he thought they were, anyway, the staff often thinks the line doesn’t show enough snap-to deference; and he got pretty fierce with them. I had to straighten him out a bit. When men have been in the line for days you don’t talk to them that way. We were both captains then, fortunately.”
Her mind perched on this thought for a moment unhappily, then swooped on. “That’s what you ought to be. An aide to General Pershing.”
“Me?” He smiled his slow, sad smile. “Honey, I’m a troop commander. I’m not a fancy dan, full of drawing-room charm and classical references and the right word at the right time and all that.”
“You could learn …”
“Maybe. I doubt it.” He chafed his naked shoulder with a thumbnail. “I’ll tell you: I think you’re either born with it or you’re not. Like curly hair.”
Tommy started faintly—she’d just remembered Massengale’s opening confession. Was that his divinely bestowed attribute? “You don’t think he’s learned it, then.”
“Oh, some of it, maybe. But not the charm, not the instinctive move toward the politic reply.” He paused. “Massengale will never make an enemy and he’ll never have a friend.”
“Oh, he has lots of friends—”
“Not the kind I mean. Not the kind that’ll stick by you in the clutch.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She fought the deep pull of his mind. “How can you possibly know anything like that?”
“It’s just a guess. An uneducated guess.” He grinned again. “A lot of the Chaumont crowd were like that. They sat back there and fiddled with their mosaics and gave the orders—they didn’t have to be around when they got carried out.”
“You’ve said yourself General Pershing was a soldier’s soldier …”
“He is.”
“Well, he ran things at Chaumont, didn’t he?”
“Honey, every man in power finds himself surrounded by a coterie. That’s in the nature of things. A few are unselfish and devoted, some are brilliant and ambitious in a broad sort of way, most of them are self-serving and ambitious in a narrow sort of way. You can’t blame Pershing. His job was to get on with the business, using what material he had at hand.”
“You excuse anybody you want to,” she fretted; she felt rebellious, vindictive, full of disorder, she didn’t know why. “He’s going to go a long, long way,” she declared, pointing her finger. “Massengale. You wait and see.”
He studied her evenly. “You’re absolutely right. He will.”
“He’s got all the qualities needed.”
“All but one.” Sam tapped his heart with two fingers. “He doesn’t care enough. About people. There’s something lacking there, some funny little—lack.”
“How do you know that?”
He got up and went to the window, where the desert wind puffed the blue target-cloth curtains, faded now on their weather side to a pale azure. “He doesn’t think people are important. Not desperately important, I mean. More important than thrones and symphonies and triumphal arches.”
“My God, Sam. You just said you only met him once before this …”
“That’s all a man needs, most of the time.”
“Snap judgments.” She dropped the hairbrush on the bedside chest. “Old Mr. Dead-eye. Well, this time you’re wrong. He has a fine sense of humor, a real natural warmth—I could feel it. You’re wrong.”
He made no reply, and this upset her more than if he’d produced some sudden, annihilating refutation. She passed her hands over her hair, raised the mosquito net and slid into bed, tucking the net down around her tightly, pulling it taut against the T-bar at her head. “I had the strangest feeling,” she could not help saying aloud; she felt all at once light-headed and irresponsible in the sultry heat, the late hour, the slow, humming silence after all the fanfare and exhilaration expelled on the breath of power’s passing. “I had the feeling you and he are tied together, somehow—that you’re going to meet years from now in a tremendous crisis.”
Sam chuckled. “He’ll be far beyond the likes of me.”
“Don’t say that …”
“I don’t begrudge him that. If that’s what he wants.”
“Well anyway: you’re going to. In some desperate emergency.”
“Lord, I hope not.” He was lying on the floor, naked except for his underdrawers, doing leg exercises; his body was lean and hard, with the ridges of muscle bright in the lamp’s frail glow. “He’d be a formidable adversary, I know
that much.”
“Yes, he would.” She lay perfectly still, watching his exertions. “But he’s afraid of you.”
He stopped and looked toward her. “What makes you say that?”
“Nothing.” She laughed, and pumped her feet up and down in the bed like a little girl; she felt bound in excitement. “Two can play that psychic game of yours, you know.”
“You’re pretty cranked up for a weary wife and mother. Singled out by old Black Jack himself for a turn around the floor. I hope it doesn’t go to your head.” He rolled over on his stomach and began doing pushups. “What did you talk about with him all that while?”
“Oh—several things: we discussed Poppa, and my resourcefulness, courage and marksmanship; and what a superb dancer the General is.”
“Nothing more than that?”
“Oh, yes—you. We discussed you at length: your predilection for snap judgments, your stubbornness, above all your pigheaded, bone-headed recalcitrance about wearing your—”
He leaped to his feet, pulled the mosquito net out from under the mattress and reached in and kissed her; she gasped with surprise. She felt a swift shiver of dereliction mingled with covert glee. It was the first time in their marriage she’d lied to him in an important matter—it was the first time she’d schemed and maneuvered, tried to arrange something behind his back. Did he suspect something of it? She remembered Reeny Keller’s face when she’d been dancing with the General: avid, almost imbecilic with guile … Had she herself looked like that, for all the world to see? Was she turning into a campaigner, then?—scheming, snatching at the propitious moment, one with that company of hard-jawed, ferret-eyed women she’d watched with such loathing all these years?