Melville Goodwin, USA

by John P. Marquand

  “You wait, son,” he said, “I’m going to wear the tweed tonight. You wait till you see it, Goochy.”

  All the while he spoke the heels of his polished brown shoes were also speaking. We were all in step together and the cadence beat into my thoughts.

  “The trouble is, I love her,” I could hear his boot heels saying. “The trouble is, I love her.”

  He was all right in the Pentagon—he knew where he was going—but unfortunately he was going further than the Pentagon, alone into a strange country where his instinct for terrain would not assist him—only his instinct for self-preservation or destruction, whichever it might be.

  I followed Melville Goodwin into the Secretary’s dining room and for the first time in a long while I felt shy and callow. The mark which the army had left on me was stronger than I had realized. Although I might try to look about me cynically, I could not avoid my old reaction to rank. I could be amused by the elaborations, but ingrained respect told me that the place was appropriate for the individuals who sat at the tables. It had taken them a long while to get there. That decorous club-like dining room was a suitable setting for the climax of careers. I cannot remember its details clearly, but I can recall its dignity and measured merriment. It was a room in which to sit up straight and to take your soup carefully and to speak in a modulated tone. In fact I found it difficult to speak at all. As Melville Goodwin had said, the air was very rarefied. It seemed to me that everyone whose picture I had ever seen was there, excepting MacArthur, who was still in Japan. I could see why General Gooch had hesitated about introducing me.

  “Gooch,” General Goodwin said, and I thought that even his voice was low and tentative, “there seems to be a small vacant table over there.”

  It was not a statement of fact but a question.

  “Yes,” General Gooch said, “but I’m not sure …” His words trailed off beneath the firm voices and the discreet sound of knives and forks around us. Melville Goodwin cleared his throat, and spoke to a Filipino petty officer who stood by the door. “May we occupy that small table over there, Chief?” he asked.

  “Which table, sir?” the Filipino asked.

  “Over there in the corner,” Melville Goodwin said.

  There was not the slightest edge to his voice, but I was pleased to see that the navy snapped into it.

  “Certainly, sir,” he said.

  “Thank you, Chief,” the General said. “Come along, Sid.”

  I was impressed by the poise of Melville Goodwin as I followed him. He did not walk too fast or too slowly. He smiled and nodded to officers who looked up at him, graciously or deferentially, according to their rank.

  We seemed to have walked a long way before we reached the table.

  “Sit over there, Sid,” the General said, “where you can see the show.”

  The faces at the other tables had a definite conformity, in spite of differences in features. They all bore the imprint of similar experience. They were all assured. They might have been arrogant once, but now they were assured instead, and some were benign and almost kindly—now that they could afford to be.

  “There’s Sunny Minturn over there,” the General said. “Who’s he sitting with, Goochy?”

  “He’s with General Candee, sir.”

  “Candee?” the General said. “That isn’t ‘Butch’ Candee, is it?”

  “There’s only one Candee that I know of, sir,” General Gooch said.

  “Then it’s Butch,” the General said. “Where’s Butch been keeping himself? I’ve never seen him around here.”

  “He’s in from Japan, I think, sir,” General Gooch answered.

  “Yes, it’s Butch all right,” Melville Goodwin said. “It’s been ten years since I’ve seen old Butch.… It looks like a roast beef day. The beef’s good here.”

  “Coffee with the meal, sir?” the mess attendant asked, but the General wanted coffee later.

  “The first time I came in here, Goochy,” the General said, “do you know what I thought of?”

  Neither General Gooch nor I knew what he had thought of.

  “I thought of the first time I went to the old Waldorf with Muriel and walked into the dining room behind her. I didn’t feel I was Mel Goodwin at all, and this place always strikes me the same way. It’s nice to be some place where you feel young. How about it, Goochy?”

  “That’s right, Mel,” General Gooch answered.

  “Gooch,” the General said, “how about telling Sid about the time that you were with Jenks in that jeep?”

  “Which time?” General Gooch asked.

  “Up near Metz, the time you rolled over the bank.”

  “You tell it, Mel,” General Gooch said. “You can tell it better,” and he smiled at me painfully. “I don’t know why the General likes that story.”

  “Because it’s a damn good story,” the General said. “You see, it was this way, Sid. Goochy was riding in this jeep. A captain was driving him, named Jenks. Do you know where Jenks is now, Goochy?”

  “He’s home,” Gooch said, “practicing law in Atlanta.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought Jenks was a lawyer on the outside,” Melville Goodwin said. “Well, anyway, Goochy was out riding with Jenks around Metz. I don’t know why. Maybe Goochy was out for a good time. You wouldn’t know it from looking at him, but he likes to amuse himself now and then. They skidded off the road and they turned a somersault in the air and landed right side up in the middle of a brook, and do you know what Goochy said? He just said, ‘That’s what I call service, Jenks, but after this we’d better walk.’”

  General Gooch smiled in a tortured way.

  “I don’t know why the General likes that story, Mr. Skelton,” he said. “There really isn’t any point to it.”

  General Goodwin laughed.

  “You’re the point, Goochy,” he said, “but maybe we’d better not tell any more jokes in here.” He nodded genially to a friend across the room. “If G–1 or any of the Joint Chiefs heard them, they might not be able to work all afternoon.”

  “Right, sir,” General Gooch answered.

  “You know, Sid,” the General said, “I always have a lot of fun when I’m with Gooch.”

  I could see why General Gooch might have been a good, efficient chief of staff. Officers I had met who occupied such a post were usually meticulous executives who were forced to lash out in disagreeable ways in order to accomplish missions and give life to the machine. I could visualize Goochy giving me an artistic chewing, but I could not see why Melville Goodwin always had fun with him. I could only perceive that they were devoted to each other, and far removed as I was from their friendship, I was drawn closer to them by its warmth.

  “Was that the time General Gooch landed on the bottle?” I asked.

  They both stared at me blankly.

  “On a bottle?” Melville Goodwin repeated. “What bottle?”

  “Yes,” General Gooch said, “what bottle?”

  I felt like an officious junior who had let himself go too far, and I found myself adopting my most placating military manner.

  “Perhaps I haven’t got it right, sir,” I said to Mel Goodwin, “but don’t I remember your telling me that General Gooch sat down hard on a pint of bourbon in a jeep? I was only wondering whether it happened in this jeep.”

  They both looked brighter. They both remembered, and General Gooch looked as though he had just sat again on the bottle.

  “I hoped the boss had forgotten that one,” General Gooch said. “That was when I was with General Goodwin in another jeep—up near Remagen, wasn’t it, Mel?”

  “You see,” the General said, “Sid’s got a photographic memory, Gooch. I forgot I’d told him about that one. That’s another of Goochy’s jeep stories. He fragmented the bottle. He should have put in for the Purple Heart. It was a wound in the line of duty.”

  I saw that General Gooch did have the Purple Heart. His beady eyes were brighter and his lips were closely held together.

&
nbsp; “A broken one, not purple, sir,” he said. “When that bottle broke, my heart damn near did, too.”

  Time had been moving on its course. We had finished the roast beef and we were each working on a hard piece of ice cream, a variety that seemed especially invented for an American officers’ mess. I was back in the army again sufficiently to realize that General Gooch’s bon mot had values that could not be captured in civil life. It had its own military breadth and freedom. It was just the sort of joke that slayed you in the army, and it worked on Melville Goodwin. His face turned red and he began choking into his napkin.

  “Say, Goochy,” he said, “make a note to tell that one at the steak fry tonight, will you? But don’t tell any more now or I may bust a button. That’s an order, Goochy.”

  Throughout the Secretary’s dining room luncheon was nearly over. Chairs were being pushed back, but the ripple of merriment from our table was not lost. I was aware of curious smiling glances, and so was General Goodwin. I saw General Minturn, with his three stars, looking at us across the room, and Butch Candee, with his one star. Melville Goodwin sat up straighter and waved his hand at them in informal greeting. A tall, pallid, bean pole of a major general with an Adam’s apple walked toward us, and he halted at our table, smiling at Mel Goodwin. General Gooch sprang hastily out of his chair, but Melville Goodwin remained seated for an appreciable moment. Then he, too, stood up.

  “Hello, Snip,” he said. “Sit down and join us, won’t you? We’re about to have some coffee, and Goochy’s telling some pretty good ones. This is my friend, Sidney Skelton, I was telling you about. He used to be in the PRO. Major Skelton—General Lewis.”

  I kept forgetting that my old rank could be carried into civil life, if I wanted it, as a graceful acknowledgment of past services. In fact I could have been called Colonel if I had elected to join the reserves. I saw at once why General Lewis had been nicknamed “Snip”—a vestige also of old humor from the Point, when Cadet Lewis had stood tallest in the tallest squad. If he had later become another Napoleon, his classmates would still have called him Snip.

  “It’s a real pleasure to have you here with us, Mr. Skelton,” General Lewis said. “I’m sorry the Secretary isn’t here today, because he would have enjoyed meeting you—but perhaps some other time.”

  “Sit down, won’t you, Snip?” Melville Goodwin asked again.

  General Lewis smiled graciously and shook his head regretfully, but even that brief gesture conveyed ease and charm of manner. I could place him right away as just the sort of person who would be selected to accompany a chief on an overseas mission that demanded tact and adroitness.

  “I wish I could,” he said, “and I hope Mr. Skelton will forgive me, but I’m due at a meeting in five minutes.” He smiled at me confidentially. “Unification. Mr. Skelton probably knows we’re unification-conscious around here now. Mel, has Sunny Minturn seen you yet?”

  Melville Goodwin’s glance traveled across the room and back to General Lewis. He looked questioningly innocent, but General Gooch did not have his skill. Every line of his concave face was intent and intelligently watchful.

  “How do you mean, has he seen me yet?” There was just the slightest emphasis when Melville Goodwin spoke the word “yet.” We were all watching General Lewis, who had the concerned expression of someone who had said too much.

  “You would think, wouldn’t you, that I’d know enough not to let cats out of bags by now,” he said, and then the full charm of his smile was turned on Melville Goodwin. “Anyway, it makes me the first to congratulate you, Mel. Step over here for a second with me, will you? Will you excuse us, Mr. Skelton, if two bad boys do a little talking out of school?”

  I had observed that playful manner before in other quarters, and I could think of women speaking of that charming General Lewis. He had his arm through Melville Goodwin’s, and they moved slowly toward the entry, speaking softly to each other, with inclined heads.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  I started. It was General Gooch beside me who had spoken, and immediately I knew that the expletive had been purely involuntary, and that he had forgotten I was there.

  “Er,” he said, “pardon me, Mr. Skelton.”

  “That’s all right,” I answered. “Don’t mind me.”

  Of course he minded me, because I had no place in that scene. I wished I were not there myself, though I was caught in the fascination of it. General Lewis and General Goodwin were shaking hands, and I heard General Goodwin say, “Thanks, I’ll see you later, Snip.” The tension and the waiting were over. The ghost had walked. The decision for Mel Goodwin’s professional future must have been made that morning. The palms of my hands were moist. I was right in there praying for Melville Goodwin exactly as hard as General Gooch was praying.

  “Son of a bitch!” General Gooch said again. Then I understood that his speech was only a release of nervous tension and that he had not been referring to General Lewis. Melville Goodwin was walking back to us.

  “Well, Goochy,” he said, and his voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat. “Well, Goochy.”

  “Come on—what’s the score?” General Gooch asked.

  Mel Goodwin smoothed the furrows on his forehead and policed the lines of his mouth. He sat down slowly and took a sip of water, and we all sat down. He put his glass down carefully and folded his napkin neatly and slowly.

  “Merriwell’s asked for me.”

  I saw General Gooch’s face light up.

  “Boy,” he said, “it’s Plans!”

  “You said it,” Melville Goodwin said. “Plans.”

  “Say,” General Gooch said, and I could feel the depth of his pleasure and relief, “see if you can get me over with you, will you?”

  Melville Goodwin rolled his napkin into a neat cylinder and dropped it in front of him.

  “Goochy,” he said, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I know it’s more than I deserve. I know I ought to jump at it—but hell …”

  “Say, Mel,” General Gooch said, “how about coming to my office. We can scare up a cup of coffee there instead of having it here.”

  Plans and planning had always been breathless words for me when I was a PRO. I had always experienced a twinge of envy for any officer in Plans. Plans was so remote, so clouded and restricted that I had no conception what happened there, except that Plans was the brains of the army. You knew everything there was to know if you were in there. You had to be outstanding in some line and cleared for everything. I had always believed that you had to have intellect plus the pure integrity of a Galahad to get into Plans, and once you were in, you were apt to stay for quite a while. It was the secret circle of the elite. I had felt pleased for Melville Goodwin. It seemed to me like a distinguished climax to his career and an ultimate reward for brilliant service. I was thinking of all the subtle comforts and emoluments that were awaiting Melville Goodwin, the son of Hallowell’s late popular druggist. I was thinking how far he had gone and of the dignity which had finally reached him. I could see him on his way to another star. I could see him in an office still larger and more spacious than that of General Gooch and I could hear the respectful voices and the muted footsteps of junior planners when they came to hand him papers. I could see him passing the sentries as he entered guarded rooms. I could see him with his private motor on call day or night. I could see him in imagination in one of those comfortable houses at Fort Myer or in his apartment at the Kennedy-Warren—Muriel would like the Kennedy-Warren. I could see him at staff meetings extracting top secret papers from his briefcase. I could hear his telephone ringing on the private wire that connected him with the Pentagon, and there were lots of other little things. Nothing was too good for Plans.

  My imagination was building up the vision, but instead of looking elated, Melville Goodwin looked tired and discouraged.

  “To hell with the God-damned coffee, Goochy,” he said when we were back again in the office.

  “Okay, Mel,” General Gooch said. �
�Rattisbone,” he called, and his voice crackled like bond paper. “Where’s Captain Rattisbone?”

  “Right here, sir,” I heard the captain answer.

  “Wait a minute,” General Goodwin said, “wait a minute, Goochy. I don’t want any coffee, but perhaps Sid does. Do you want coffee, Sid?”

  “No thank you, sir,” I answered.

  “All right,” Melville Goodwin said, “excuse me. Carry on.”

  “We don’t need coffee, Captain,” General Gooch said. “Say I’ve stepped out if anyone calls. We don’t want to be disturbed unless there’s a telephone for General Goodwin.” He closed the door softly and decisively. It had a lock and when Goochy locked it, for some reason rank dropped away. In fact I could almost call him “Goochy” and I could finally see why Melville Goodwin liked him.

  “Listen, Mel,” he said, “let’s cut out the horsefeathers. Why the hell aren’t you buying us drinks and cigars? You’ve just been given the snappiest damned job that anyone could hand you. What are you dragging your ass for? I haven’t seen you this way since they ordered us out of Maule. Sit down and get whatever’s biting you off your chest. Nothing you say in here is going any further unless …” His beady black eyes bored into me, “unless it’s Mr. Skelton.”

  “God damn it, Goochy!” Melville Goodwin said, and I had never heard him raise his voice before. He did not raise it much, but it sent a shiver down my spine. “Sid’s all right. Besides, we didn’t pull out of Maule.”

  “No, we didn’t and we God-damned near got a court for it,” General Gooch said.

  General Goodwin rocked back and forth on his heels.

  “They couldn’t give me a court,” he said, “because we saved the whole God-damned corps, and you know it, Goochy. That’s why when I was in Paris old Four-eyes got me to lecture to those VIPs. Do you remember, Sid?” I remembered very clearly. I remembered the lieutenant colonel and the pointer and Dottie Peale.

  “Well, get it off your chest,” Goochy said. “Get it out of your system, boy, as long as Sid here understands it’s confidential.”