A Midwinter's Tale

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “All right, you men, listen to me. I am General Radford T. Meade. You are surrounded by my Constabulary troopers and are under arrest. Put your hands behind your heads now or you will be charged with resisting arrest. Anyone who reaches for a weapon will be shot. Now move!”

  As they did, the PA whined loudly.

  The black-market guys hesitated, paralyzed by the sudden voice out of the dark forest and the ominous screech from the PA. Then blinking against the lights of their trucks, they saw our men slipping out of the forest with their weapons ready, ghosts in the night from some long-forgotten army.

  “Last warning.” The general sounded mad. “Hands over your heads or we open fire.”

  They complied quickly after that.

  Where was Staff Sgt. Charles C. O’Malley at that point? Cowering behind the general where he belonged? No, he was out in front of everyone else, shooting away with his two cameras and right in the line of fire.

  Asshole.

  Dick McQueen’s hand moved slowly toward the huge Colt .45 he was lugging in a massive holster. Then he lost his nerve. I caught him in the act with the Leica.

  “That’s better,” General Meade said calmly. “Now those who are carrying side arms step one pace forward.”

  A dozen men, probably officers, stepped forward hesitantly. Sam Houston was the last to move, Dick McQueen the first. A brave man, if a crook. I felt sorry for him.

  Our men slowly closed in, a noose tightening around the crooks’ necks.

  “Now unfasten your gun belts and drop them, real carefully.”

  The fight was gone out of the guys on the other side. They did exactly what they were told, even Carpenter.

  I switched to the Kodak, changed the flash, put the Leica in my pocket, and continued to shoot, still a good five yards ahead of the rest of the Constabs.

  “All right, men,” the general ordered, “take these criminals into custody.”

  Our guys moved into the circle of light and began fastening handcuffs on our prisoners, despite loud protestations of innocence from the latter.

  McQueen, in a last desperate ploy, rushed up to the general. “What the hell are you doing? I’ve had this crowd staked out for months! You’re ruining it all!”

  “Yes, sir!” Sam Houston joined him. “We just about had them! This is a big mistake!”

  I got a couple of marvelous shots of him, the sort of thing that in some future election campaign would be useful to his opponents.

  “Too late, Sam,” the general said sadly. “We know now what game you’ve been playing.”

  I had run out of film in the Kodak and tried to reload the Leica with hands that, I noticed for the first time, were trembling. So maybe I was a little afraid after all. I finally got the film in and tried to switch the flash.

  McQueen continued to argue with the general. He was not one of these criminals. He was preparing a major operation to seize the leaders of the gang. Why in the hell was the general ruining it?

  The general lost his patience. “Shut up, Dick. You’re lying through your teeth. . . . Cuff these two men!”

  I heard the noise of a brief tussle and a warning cry of “Look out!” My Leica finally in operation, I looked up and saw Sam Houston Carpenter pointing a small pistol at my head.

  “Die, you sneaky little bastard!”

  For want of something better to do, I pointed the camera at him and flicked the release. Rosemarie’s face appeared in my imagination. I think I may have said a quick Act of Contrition.

  The exploding flash disturbed Sam Houston. He fired and missed. The small-caliber bullet, like a crazed mosquito, hissed by my head. I shot again.

  And managed to catch in the picture Tim Lowry, the young second looey from the Point, twisting the weapon away from Sam Houston. Lowry hit him in the jaw just once, and Sam collapsed into the grass. The shavetail leaned over him and pointed the weapon at the middle of Sam’s forehead. A couple of our guys ran up and cuffed him and held him on the ground.

  That made an excellent shot too.

  “O’Malley,” Lowry said in an awed voice, “you’re plain crazy. Why didn’t you run?”

  “It’s the iron bars that were tied around my feet.”

  The lieutenant laughed. “Good work anyway.”

  “The same to you and many more.”

  We shook hands and grinned at each other. “Thanks,” I said, “you’re pretty quick.”

  “So are you.”

  “What the fuck were you doing?” General Meade bellowed at me.

  “Getting evidence, sir. It will be hard for the courts-martial to ignore photographic evidence.”

  I was wrong. In some of the cases, the courts-martial ignored my pictures.

  I continued to shoot away at the scene until I ran out of film.

  The rest was routine. The prisoners were herded into buses. Some of our men were detailed to drive the vehicles back to the Residenz. I sat in the Buick and waited for the general. My knee was hurting again. I was numb emotionally. I objectively considered the image of the pistol pointed at my head and listened with similar detachment to the whisking noise of the bullet—a .25 it turned out—as it buzzed past my ear. I was still alive, so why worry? Except that I was a damn fool.

  “Good thinking, son,” the general said as he motioned me out of the driver’s seat. “Those pictures of yours will be indispensable as evidence.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said glumly. I was perfectly capable of driving myself, I thought. So what if my hands were quivering?

  General Meade was quiet for most of the ride back.

  “Would you consider accepting a field commission, son?” he asked me as we pulled into Bamberg Nord.

  “Thank you, sir, but no thank you.”

  “I thought so. I’m sorry but I understand.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  No way I wanted to stay in the service for a couple of more years. Good thing I turned him down or I would have ended up in Korea.

  It was four-thirty when I sank into my bed at the Bambergerhof. I figured I would sleep soundly till noon. Instead I started to shiver. Uncontrollably. For the next three hours. I still shiver when I have dreams of that small muzzle pointing at my head. Sometimes I practice saying the Act of Contrition in a hurry. Just in case.

  There was no word from Trudi that day and no letter from Rosemarie. I felt abandoned. On Saturday as usual I boarded the train for Stuttgart. My knee was in good enough condition for me to roam the streets all day. I thought I saw her a couple of times in the stores, but it was always someone else.

  Most of the enlisted men we picked up at Büttenheim got two years (which would mean a little more than one year with time off for good behavior). A few officers got a year (nine months) and were dishonorably discharged. The other officers were acquitted or fined. Sam Houston Carpenter got six months and a discharge “without honor.” Dick McQueen, the brains of it all, was permitted to resign without charges being brought. General Meade got another star on his shoulder. The kid from West Point who had saved my life was soon wearing a silver bar. I got another stripe on my arm and a medal.

  That was that.

  “He tried to kill me,” I protested to the general when he told me of the court’s verdict on Carpenter.

  “I know, I know. He was very cooperative in testifying against the others. The judge instructed the jurors to consider the possibility that he really was spying on the ring and the possibility that he was under severe strain when he shot at you.”

  “Not as much as I would have been if he hadn’t missed.”

  “Sam has lots of good friends,” the general murmured.

  “He sure does.”

  “And he acted every inch the soldier during his trial.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’ll never dare run for political office anyway.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Someone sent those pictures of him to the newspaper in the capital of his state. Seems that the paper is on the opposite sid
e of Sam’s family. They spread same all over the front page.”

  “Can you imagine that?”

  We did haul in some of the big fish in the operation, but only one did time in a disciplinary barracks. In a few months a new operation was hard at work. New faces maybe, but the same old crimes.

  On Monday the week after our roll-up of the black-market gang, Kurt Richter went home from the hospital, not completely better but much improved. Brigie was fretful and nervous that afternoon, but radiant the next morning.

  Good for them, I thought.

  Now all the adventures were over and I could settle down to my class work.

  28

  There was one more small matter to clear up.

  Brigitta was not happy. Each morning she showed up at her typewriter sad and distracted.

  You get what you’ve been praying for and it turns out to have a bitter taste.

  “What’s the matter with herself?” I asked Captain Polly.

  “Kurt is acting like a bastard,” she said with the contempt that outraged women of our ethnic background muster when men are not “acting the way they should.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Well, he’s not beating up on her. But he’s nervous and irritable and shouts at the kids and won’t talk to her.”

  “Needs to see a shrink.”

  “Refuses. Absolutely. He can take care of his problems himself, if only his family would give him a little support. Someone ought to talk to him.”

  “Okay. I’ll go over tomorrow morning.”

  “You?” She opened her mouth in surprise. “What do you know about marriage?”

  “Nothing, but I do know an asshole when I see one.”

  “And you will take Nan out on Friday night.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nan Wynn on a date—D-A-T-E. We’ve been talking about it for days and you finally agreed.”

  “Against regulations.”

  “We’ve been through that, Chucky. She’s not going to wear her bars.”

  “No money.”

  “Come on, how much money did you make selling those pictures of the operation to Life?”

  “Classified. Besides, when the courts-martial decided they didn’t need the pictures, I couldn’t let them go to waste. It was my film.”

  I had made enough and a lot more than enough to fill the void in my bank account from the Trudi operation.

  “So you will take her out? She is a sweet little thing and very vulnerable and very lonely. She’s afraid of most of the men around here.”

  “But not of me?”

  “You’re dangerous, Chucky, very dangerous, but you’d never hurt a woman.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you take her out?”

  “Sure,” I said as if I couldn’t understand what all the discussion was about.

  Actually, the date was fun. As soon as she felt relaxed and secure, Nan was a delightful young woman. So we dated for a while and both of us enjoyed it and became fond of one another. I had never dated before and I discovered that I liked it (brilliant discovery, Charles C.). The protocols of a date, the flirting and the restraints, the careful exploration of each other’s personality, the advances and the retreats, were a fascinating experience, especially after the high intensity of Trudi.

  Early on, the two of us decided implicitly that while we enjoyed each other’s company, we had no future together. That was all right, our relationship was in the present.

  It was all chaste, well, moderately chaste. Sweet but hardly passionate kisses and only featherlight petting.

  I forgot about Trudi when I was with Nan, which was a sign of something, I told myself, but I wasn’t sure of what.

  When it was time for me to leave for home (and Captain Polly had long since left), I figured that I was responsible for finding another date for Nan. A young banker named Ben Harding was working with currency-control people at figuring out how the new German currency system would work when the Federal Republic came into existence. A good-looking guy, he was from the same part of the world as Nan, shy like her, and the scion of a wealthy banking family.

  Why not?

  The morning after their first date, she stood next to my desk, hugging herself as if she were standing in a snowstorm. “He is so sweet, Chucky, so sweet.”

  A half hour later Ben called me.

  “That was quite a tractor that ran over me last night, fella. I didn’t even see it coming.”

  “I told you that you’d have a good time.”

  “That doesn’t even come close to describing it.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I figure I have that already after last night.”

  “Then congratulations.”

  He did not try to persuade me that I was being premature.

  The morning after Captain Polly had informed me about the problems with the Richters and sandbagged me into taking Nan out, I waited till Brigie was in the office and then ducked out and dashed over to the Seventh Army Hospital.

  “I need a favor,” I told Jack Berman.

  “Always the Chicagoan!”

  “I’m going to bring a patient over to you in an hour or so. Panzer commander, dependent of a Constab employee. I want you to cure him.”

  “We don’t cure,” he said, laughing, “we help people to become a little better. Tell me about him.”

  I told him the whole story.

  “You are just a little mad yourself, Chuck. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Regardless. You will help him, won’t you?”

  “Naturally.”

  Yes, naturally.

  I then stormed over to the Richter apartment.

  “Good morning, Chuck,” Kurt said genially, a book in his hand, finger marking the place. He was wearing a new brown suit with a light sweater—clothes that Brigitta had doubtless bought for him. He seemed healthy again, contented and happy.

  “Kurt Richter,” I began mildly, “you’re a fucking asshole.”

  “Pardon me?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Any man who has a wife like Brigitta and hurts her is a moron; such a man ought to be sent back to the prison camp for the rest of his life.”

  He sat down in his rocking chair, put his book on the floor, and tried, all too casually, to light his pipe.

  “I do not hit her,” he said uneasily.

  “Damn good thing for you that you don’t.”

  “She has spoken to you.” He glared at me suspiciously.

  “Don’t give me that fucking Prussian look, shitface. Of course she didn’t talk to me. For some stupid reason, she’s still loyal to you. Sure, you don’t hit her, you only break her heart.”

  He put the pipe down and hunched forward. “I don’t want to do that. But they don’t understand what it was like.”

  “And you don’t understand what it was like for them.”

  “It was much worse for me.”

  “So an intelligent man like you is going to go through life comparing pains?”

  He shut his eyes and thought about it. “That would be very foolish, wouldn’t it?”

  “Fucking foolish.”

  “You think I should talk to a psychiatrist at the Army hospital?”

  “You mean you aren’t seeing one every day?”

  “No . . . ,” he admitted.

  “Then you really are an asshole. You don’t deserve Brigitta.”

  “I certainly do not deserve her.”

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “Now? Today?” He smiled ruefully at me.

  “Why not?”

  “No reason,” he sighed. “You will of course accompany me to make sure I do not turn away?”

  “You bet your life I will.”

  So we walked over to the hospital on the other side of the canal.

  “That is not your normal language, is it, Chuck?”

  “You’re fucking right, it’s not my normal language.”

  We laughed together, male conspirat
ors against what John Knox had called the “monstrous regiment of women.”

  The next day Brigie seemed more happy and relaxed, but hardly what you would call serene. It was a slow process, but as the months went on, they seemed to be working it out.

  Kurt had extravagant words of praise for the wonderful Dr. Berman.

  “He is Jewish, Chuck. Did you know that?”

  “No kidding.”

  “I do not understand, why is he so concerned about me?”

  “Ask him sometime.”

  I don’t know whether Kurt ever did.

  I celebrated St. Nicholas’s day with them. The two kids were ecstatic about their presents. The parents kept their arms around each other through the evening, save when I was being served food. They told me that Brigitta was pregnant, an announcement at which I pretended to be surprised.

  There were two big farewell parties that December—one for the Nettletons, who were returning to civilian life and politics in Boston, and one for General Meade, who was assuming command of an armored division at Fort Knox. The parties were sad for me. I was losing another family. Everyone else treated the events like a celebration.

  The new commander of the Constabulary in our part of Bavaria was a quieter and more formal man than General Meade and ran a much less relaxed operation. While he didn’t particularly enjoy my style of wit or mode of dealing with superior officers, he had been told by General Meade that I was valuable and used my help on an occasional project. He didn’t mess with my Buick or my room at the Bambergerhof. I don’t think he ever found out that I was dating his adjutant. He surely would not have approved. He even considered getting rid of Brigitta, but was talked out of that by a phone call from General Clay.

  I forget who talked to General Clay.

  So my time was virtually all my own during the last five months in Bamberg. I did a lot of studying and reading. Rosemarie and I continued to write to one another, but we were afraid of what we had said in previous letters. So, our correspondence was less intense and self-revelatory and eventually less frequent.

  I took the extra money remaining from my sale to Life and paid a visit to my old friend Max Albrecht.

  “Max, I want twenty of your best prints of German warplanes. Thirty dollars a print.”