The Majors

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Thank you,” Melody said.

  That was just like him. He had told her about the beer busts. Once a month, the officers chipped in most of the money and provided the enlisted men with steaks and all the beer they could drink. That’s where he was, out with the enlisted men swilling beer when he should have been arranging for the reception, which was just as important to him as it was to her. He preferred drinking himself silly on beer with the enlisted men to meeting his obligations and responsibilities to her.

  Sometimes she just hated him!

  It took her twenty-five minutes to find the USAACDA beer bust. There were three other beer busts, and she had to stop at each one long enough to find out it was the wrong one.

  By the time she finally found the USAACDA beer bust, Ed was drunk. She could tell that from the bemused look on his face when he saw her. He was sitting on the hood of a jeep. The jeep was towing a trailer, and the trailer was full of huge chunks of ice and beer. The pine straw on the ground was just about covered with empty beer cans.

  One of the enlisted men, a young sergeant, walked up to him just before Melody got to him and pointed to a group of GIs around a woman. Ed Greer laughed, and then grew serious.

  “If the colonel finds out, he’ll have your balls for breakfast,” Melody heard him say.

  “Hi,” Melody said. Now that she was actually facing him, she really couldn’t be angry.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “If the colonel finds out what?” Melody asked.

  “The troops have been feeding punch to our born-again Christian wife, mother, and Get-Thee-Behind-Me-Demon-Rum secretary,” he said, and laughed.

  “What’s funny about that?”

  “There’s three half-gallons of vodka in that pot,” he said. “Darlene is bombed out of her mind.”

  Melody looked over and saw Darlene Heatter, her face flushed, her hair mussed, with the group of GIs. Two of them had their arms around her shoulders. They were singing and laughing idiotically.

  “And you think that’s funny?” Melody snapped.

  “It will do until something funnier comes along,” Greer said.

  “Why didn’t you come and meet with the caterer?” Melody asked.

  “A very good question,” he said. He was really drunk, she saw. She had never seen him this drunk before.

  “Or at least call and say you weren’t coming?”

  “You are looking at Old Mr. Ball-less himself,” Ed said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I didn’t have the balls to call,” he said. “As a matter of fact, before you showed up here—uninvited, I must point out—I was just about to decide that I would write you a letter.”

  “A letter? What kind of a letter?”

  “A Dear John letter,” Greer said, looking at her through somewhat fuzzy eyes. “In your case, a ‘Dear Melody’ letter.”

  “Saying what?” Melody asked. She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Saying, ‘Dear Melody, dear sweet Melody, we have made one hell of a mistake.’”

  “You’re drunk,” she said.

  “Getting there,” he agreed. “Getting there.”

  “If you have a point, I don’t know what it is,” she said.

  “The army’s sending me to Algeria,” he said.

  “The army’s doing what?”

  “Algeria,” he said. “They’re sending me to Algeria. Tomorrow.”

  “They can’t do that!” Melody protested. “Your resignation was approved.”

  “I have withdrawn my resignation,” he said.

  “I don’t believe any of this. Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  “Believe it,” he said. She knew then he wasn’t lying.

  “But why?” she asked.

  “Because when I thought about it,” he said, “I realized that I would much rather be a first lieutenant in the army than a vice president of Dale County Builders, Inc., despite the very nice fringe benefits.”

  “They offered to make you a lieutenant, if you’d stay?” she asked.

  He put his hand to his collar point and exhibited it to her. There was the silver bar of a first lieutenant.

  “Why didn’t you talk this over with me?” Melody asked.

  “Because you probably could have talked me out of it,” he said. “And this opportunity wasn’t going to knock again.”

  “What opportunity?”

  “Algeria,” he said. “Doing something important.”

  “I’m not important? Is that what you’re saying?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “We’re supposed to be in love,” Melody said.

  “I thought about that, too,” Greer said. “What we are is in lust. We’ve been fooling each other.”

  “How do you mean that?”

  “You know what I mean,” he said, mysteriously.

  “We’re supposed to be married on the tenth of February,” she said. “What about that?”

  He just looked at her and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’ll be a laughing stock,” she said.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “You never intended to marry me!” she accused, and now she was shrieking hysterically. “You bastard, you never intended to marry me! All you wanted was a piece of ass!”

  “No. That’s not true,” Greer said. “I just finally stopped thinking about fucking and started thinking about the way things really are. We couldn’t hack it, Melody. You’re daddy’s girl, and I’m a soldier.”

  “I hate you!” Melody shrieked. She didn’t care that people were watching her. “You bastard!” she screamed.

  She slapped his face and stormed toward her car. Halfway there, she turned around. Tears streaming down her face, she shook her fist at him. Then the fist turned into the finger. Then she screamed, “Fuck you!”

  Then she got in the car and somehow got it started and put it in gear. With the wheels spinning on the pine straw, she started off.

  Greer sat on the hood a moment longer and then tossed his beer can away. He walked over to the officer’s table where there was whiskey. He made himself a scotch and soda in a paper cup.

  MacMillan walked over to him, stood silently for a moment, then said:

  “Does that mean the engagement is off?” he asked, innocently.

  “Yeah, I suppose it does,” Greer said, chuckling.

  “You’re not going to do anything foolish like get yourself shit-faced, are you?” Mac asked. “Sandy Felter frowns on drunks. What time are you due in Washington?”

  “I’m on the 8:20 flight out of Dothan in the morning. I’ll be in Washington National about 1500.”

  “You want me to get a plane and take you up there?”

  “No, thanks anyway, Mac.”

  “Why don’t you come over to the house tonight?” MacMillan asked.

  “I’ve got to finish packing,” Greer said. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Well,” MacMillan said, “say hello to Felter. And don’t do nothing heroic over there.”

  They shook hands. Greer walked to where he had parked his car. He was going to leave the car parked behind his BOQ. MacMillan would advertise it in the Daily Bulletin and sell it for him. Major Lowell (now there was a character—his own personal Aero Commander!) had talked to him at some length about what to expect in Algeria and had told him the smart thing to do for wheels in Algiers was buy a new Renault 4CV. With a diplomatic passport, he could get one tax free.

  He was almost to the car when he saw Darlene Heatter. She was walking unsteadily toward the rest rooms. She would pass by the officers and their wives. He didn’t give a damn about Darlene; so far as he was concerned, she could fall flat on her ass in front of Bellmon. But Bellmon would find out that the troops had been feeding her vodka-spiked punch. Bellmon would not think that was funny.

  He caught up with her.

  “Mrs. Heatter,” he said. “I’m going back to the post. Can I offer you a ride?”

 
; She looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then smiled broadly.

  “Why not?” she said, and took his arm.

  He had a little trouble getting her into the car, she was that bombed.

  “I feel so silly!” she announced, when they were on their way from the lake to the post.

  “There was a lot of vodka in that punch you were drinking,” he said. “In case you didn’t know.”

  “I know,” she said. “I figured that out myself.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “When I started feeling so good, I figured that out myself.”

  “I see.”

  “I figured, since everybody else was doing it, why not?”

  “And you like it?”

  “It’s different,” she said. “But how am I going to go home?” She giggled.

  Christ, now he was stuck with her. If she went home that way, her husband, another tee totaler, would cause all kinds of trouble. He decided he would take her to the snack bar and get her a cup of coffee and then dismissed that idea. She would be obviously drunk in the snack bar.

  “If you’d like,” Greer said, “I could make you a cup of coffee. In my BOQ.”

  She thought that over a moment.

  “That’s all you have in mind?” she asked.

  He laughed.

  “Word of honor. A couple of cups of coffee and you’ll feel a lot better.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much. If my husband ever found out about this, he’d kill me.”

  “Well, we’ll just make sure he never finds out,” Greer said.

  She was unsteady on her feet going up the stairs to his room, and he was grateful that there was nobody in the BOQ corridors.

  He installed her in one of the armchairs and got the electric coffeepot going. There were still two bottles of beer in the refrigerator, and he took one.

  “I never tasted alcohol until today,” Darlene said, when she saw him.

  “Is that so?”

  “And I’ve never tasted beer,” she said.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  “I want a taste of the beer,” she said. He handed her the bottle. She took several swallows, licked her lips, and said it was good.

  “If you drink the rest of that, the coffee won’t do you any good,” Greer said.

  “So what?”

  “What about your husband?”

  “I was lying about him,” she said. “He won’t be home. He’ll be at the fire station. Did you know that my husband is a fireman?”

  “Yes, I did,” Greer said.

  “Well, he won’t be home until nine tomorrow morning,” Darlene said. “And the kids are at my mother’s, so if I want to drink a beer, nobody has to know a thing about it.”

  “Help yourself,” Greer said.

  “Thank you, I will,” she said, archly.

  He took the last bottle of beer from the refrigerator and opened it. When he turned around again, Darlene was reading Playboy.

  “I can’t understand why girls pose for pictures like that,” she said. “I mean, people they know would know.”

  “I guess they pay them,” he said.

  “I’m not a prude,” Darlene said. “I know men like to look at naked women.” She laughed. “And I guess women like to look at naked men, too. Somebody should start a magazine for women with naked men inside. I’d buy it.”

  Greer was suddenly alarmed. Fuck the coffee, he thought. Just get her out of here!

  “You about ready to go, Darlene?” he asked.

  “You trying to get rid of me, or what?”

  “Don’t you think you’d better start thinking about getting home?”

  “I bet if I took my clothes off, you’d want me to stay,” Darlene said. “I’ll bet you would.”

  Greer didn’t say anything.

  Darlene stood up, and started to unfasten her blouse.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Greer asked.

  She had been looking down at her buttons. Now she looked up at him.

  “I just thought,” she said. “You’re going away tomorrow. For good.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

  “So nobody would ever know,” she said. She lowered her head and looked at her fingers on the buttons, but she stopped moving the fingers. “You want to, or not?” she asked.

  Fuck it, Greer thought. It’s probably just what I need.

  “Yes,” he said.

  (Three)

  The Pentagon

  Washington, D.C.

  1 June 1957

  The Vice Chief of Staff of the U.S. Army caught the Chief of Staff of the U.S. Army as he was preparing to enter his black Cadillac limousine.

  “I’m on my way to see the President, E. Z.,” the Chief of Staff said.

  “Fuck him, let him wait,” E. Z. Black said. “This is important.”

  Shaking his head, smiling, the Chief of Staff took the sheet of paper extended to him. It contained just three names. There was a neat check mark by one of them.

  “You think that’s it, huh?” the Chief of Staff said.

  “Yes, sir. That is my recommendation.”

  “There’s going to be howls of rage,” the Chief of Staff said. “Cries of favoritism, cronyism. They’re going to read into this more than I think you intend.”

  “With a little bit of luck,” General E. Z. Black said, “I’ll be able to blame it on the outrageous interference of the Deputy Secretary of Defense on Internal Army Affairs.”

  The Vice Chief of Staff leaned over the roof of his limousine and scribbled his initials on the sheet of typewriter paper.

  “Thank you, sir,” General Black said.

  “I’ll be burned in effigy,” the Chief of Staff said.

  “They’ll probably take your bust out of the Airborne Hall of Fame,” General Black said. “Or use it for a dart board.”

  “Tell me. Because he’s the best man? Or because you think aviation is the flying cavalry?”

  “A little of both,” Black said. “I’ve always been a little afraid of the airborne’s idea of ‘acceptable losses in the assault.’ A tanker has been trained since he’s a second lieutenant to conserve his assets.”

  “Yeah,” the Chief of Staff said. “That’s just what I decided. Right now, I mean. Trying to read your mind.”

  The Chief of Staff started to get into the limousine.

  “Give my most respectful regards to our Commander in Chief,” E. Z. Black said.

  “I just might do that, E. Z.,” the Chief of Staff said.

  Because it had been far more political, the selection of a general officer to replace the late Major General Angus Laird as commanding general of the U.S. Army Aviation Center had been somewhat more difficult than the selection of a replacement commander for another of the combat arms or technical services schools would have been.

  For one thing, there was no legally established aviation branch, and thus the slot was not reserved for an infantry general, as would have been the case had the commanding general of Fort Benning, the Infantry Center, suddenly died. Or for an artillery general, if the commander of the Artillery Center at Fort Sill had died. Or an armor general, had the commanding general’s slot at Fort Knox suddenly come open.

  As a matter of fact, it had been originally and rather universally believed that the new Rucker commander would not be an armor General. Scotty Laird had been armor, and logically—fairly—the new commander should not be. Now that armor had had its turn, it was now infantry’s, or airborne’s, or maybe even artillery’s or, remotely, transportation’s.

  There are normally seven four-star generals on active duty. The Chief of Staff; the Vice Chief of Staff; the Commanders in Chief Europe and Asia; the Commanding General of Continental Army Command; and the Commanding Generals, U.S. Army Forces, Europe, and U.S. Army Forces, Far East.

  Next down the line come the twenty-five to thirty lieutenant (three-star) generals, who command the eight a
rmies, the larger corps, and serve as deputies to the four-stars. The Assistant Chiefs of Staff for Operations, Personnel, Logistics, and other general and special staff functions are normally lieutenant generals.

  There are nearly two hundred major (two-star) generals and over three hundred brigadier (one-star) generals. It was from this latter group of more than five hundred one-and two-star generals, almost all by definition thoroughly qualified officers, that the selection would have to be made.

  But numbers were deceiving. Not all of the five hundred brigadier and major generals were available for consideration. The technical service general officers were immediately eliminated from consideration. The Surgeon General and his subordinates were obviously out of the running, and so were the general officers who had spent their careers in the Finance Corps, the Signal Corps, the Ordnance Corps and the Quartermaster Corps. The Corps of Engineers made a halfhearted attempt to let it be known that it would not stagger the imagination to have an engineer general command Rucker, especially in view of the massive construction projects underway in Alabama.

  The Transportation Corps made a serious attempt to gain the slot, coming up with a skillfully written staff study attempting to prove that aviation was really nothing more than an assemblage of flying trucks and jeeps. If the army of the 1960s, it argued, was indeed to be air mobile, then the bulk of the “aerial vehicles” would be flying trucks, as the vehicles of the present army were predominantly wheeled ones.

  As vehicles of transportation, the Transportation Corps argued, it was simply logical to place the training of their crews and maintenance personnel under the Transportation Corps, which already had responsibility for wheeled vehicles and their serving personnel. They had an in-place, tested system, the Transportation Corps argued, that with obviously simple modifications could and should be adapted for army aviation. Finally, they argued, there was no place in the army better able to accept the thousands of warrant officer pilots than TC. When, for one reason or another, the warrant officer pilots could no longer fly, work would have to be found for them. Those who could not be absorbed in aviation-type functions could be employed in other TC rail, road and water operations.

  The arguments advanced were logical, but the proposed TC equation lacked one essential ingredient. The Transportation Corps was a technical service, not a combat arm. While the odd TC officer, here and there, might have had to send out a truck convoy somewhere or other where it might come under fire, no TC officer had ever had to look his lieutenants in the eye and announce to them they were expected to lead their men over the next hill; or set the fuses to zero and fire point-blank; or push disabled tracks to the side of the road and keep moving.