Dress Gray

by Lucian K. Truscott

  And so Captain Randy Taylor, who was six feet tall and wise beyond his years, and had long since realized he was now a handler, once again endeavored to handle the life of General William Beckwith, the fifty-one-year-old Commander of the Third Army at Fort Benning. He picked up Beckwith’s drink.

  “Let me back that up for you, sir.”

  He dropped in a couple of ice cubes, topped it off with gin, handed it to him. Beckwith drank eagerly.

  “I’ll pick up Mrs. Beckwith, sir. I’ll take Corporal Weyerich with me. He’s the clerk who used to work in a hair salon.”

  Beckwith, wearily: “Right. Weyerich. Of course.”

  “Corporal Weyerich will comb out her hair. I’ll fix her a Manhattan. While Weyerich is doing her hair, I’ll give Mrs. Sumner a call and tell her she’s not to wear the same dress as Mrs. Beckwith. I’ll coordinate with your driver and make sure we arrive at the club the same time you do, so she won’t have to stand around waiting.”

  Randy handed the general’s dress blue trousers to him. Beckwith stepped into the trousers, pulled the suspenders over his shoulders.

  “I guess the question I ought to be asking myself is, what would I do without you, Randy? Order myself up a concierge, I guess.”

  A knowing smile. “I don’t believe Army commands come equipped with a concierge. Not provided for in the TO&E, sir.”

  Beckwith laughed, and threw an arm around Randy’s shoulder. “Listen to me now. I want to get this thing tonight over with as quickly as possible. I give my speech to the ladies at the club at 2100. I’ll conclude at 2120 and circulate. By 2130, I want you to get word to me that there’s a power line down, or lightning has hit some fucking building, or the parade field’s waist-deep high and rising, something that will require my immediate attention.”

  Randy nodded. “I’ll call Peters, sir. The O-club manager. He’ll give you the message.”

  “Good work.”

  Beckwith walked over to the wardrobe stand where his dress blue jacket hung. Lovingly, he ran his fingers over the ribbons above the left breast pocket, and touched the stars on the jacket epaulets. Randy started to leave. Beckwith stopped him.

  “Who’s driving me tonight?”

  “Sergeant Taylor, sir.”

  “Tell Taylor to leave the staff car in front of the club for me. I’ll drive myself home.”

  Despite the fact that Army policy required an enlisted drive the general’s staff car, this was a request that General Beckwith had made before, and Randy didn’t hesitate. “Right, sir. I’ll tell him.”

  “You’d better get a move on if you’re going to get the Missus over to the club at 1900.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Randy scooted through the door to his office and picked up the phone. “Weyerich? Meet me out in the parking lot. I’ve got a mission for you.” He grabbed his overcoat and was out the door.

  The storm caught them just outside of Eufaula, Alabama. The road was nearly obscured by blinding sheets of rain that slowed them to twenty miles per hour. Mace was driving. It took nearly an hour to get from Eufaula to Phoenix City, just across the Chattahoochee from Fort Benning, normally a fifteen-minute drive. Mace could barely make out the edge of the road. The defroster was on full, but failed utterly to clear the inside of the windshield. Kara swiped the windshield with a paper towel, but it fogged again quickly, so she tore off another towel and kept wiping, a pile of wadded-up paper towels lying at her feet.

  Mace squinted into the gloom. “This stuff is going to play hell with training tomorrow. We’re supposed to run the confidence course at 0800. There ain’t a chance it’s going to let up.”

  “Don’t worry. Your battalion commander will call it off.”

  “Not a chance. They’ve got some new policy, came down last month, that no training was to be canceled due to weather. A friend of mine told me they had him practicing river crossings last week. It was forty-five outside. The water was fifty degrees, and they had them in there all day.”

  Kara peered into the rain. “I think this is the turnoff for the bridge. Can you see the sign?”

  He squinted out the side window. “Yeah, this is it.”

  He made a right, and the Cherokee started up the long ramp leading to the bridge. Below them, the Chattahoochee was swollen to twice its normal size, surging over its banks, filling the sloughs and low spots along the river.

  “Christ, you see that?” Mace pointed out the window. “Half the damn north end of the state is dumping runoff down that channel. I’ve never seen the river this high.”

  “Me either.”

  “Let’s turn on the weather.” He fiddled with the radio until he came up with an all-news station out of Atlanta, about a hundred miles north. The radio announcer’s voice was edgy, tinged with excitement.

  “ … power is out to twelve thousand homes in the Atlanta area … Six inches have fallen in the last two hours, and rain is not expected to let up until Monday afternoon…. Georgia Electric has crews on the move all over the north side.”

  They listened for a moment, then he turned off the radio. “I’ve seen storms like this before come boiling out of the Gulf. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

  “I wonder how things look at the post.”

  “They probably called an alert, got everybody in full field gear, waiting for orders to fill sandbags.”

  He slowed the car at a light. The intersection was flooded, water flowing over the curbs. He turned left. The Cherokee plowed through, found clear pavement, and accelerated.

  “Which way are you going?”

  “South gate. It’s quicker. Artillery Drive comes up right behind my barracks.”

  He turned left, drove a half mile, made another left. They were on a two-lane blacktop out near the edge of Columbus. The headlights of the Cherokee found a small sign: FT. BENNING SOUTH GATE. He made the turn onto the military reservation, driving down a narrow road lined on either side with thick pine forests.

  “Aaahhh. No place like home,” said Mace.

  “How’d you manage to get yourself stationed here at Benning for so long?”

  Smiling: “They do stuff like that for sergeants.”

  “The longest duty I ever had was two years at Fort Jackson. I’ve done my share of one-year tours.”

  “That’s what you get for not being married. They’ll ship you anywhere anytime. They know you haven’t got a family to lug around.”

  “So? You’re not married, and I don’t see them bouncing you between Army posts like a damn ping-pong ball.”

  “Like I said. You get good deals when you’re an NCO.”

  She laughed. “I see. God made you a sergeant first and a man second. I call that the luck of the draw.”

  “I don’t know you’d call five years at Benning luck.” He took a swipe at the windshield and sat forward, straining to see out. “Jesus. Look at the rifle range.”

  He slowed the Cherokee to a stop. They could make out the corrugated-steel sheds and control tower of the rifle range standing in the middle of a lake covering several acres.

  “Incredible.”

  “I’ve never seen rain this bad at Benning,” said Mace. “I mean, this is really something. And it’s starting to come down harder.”

  The wind shifted, and a stiff rain pelted the Cherokee like a shower of BB’s. The ditches on either side of them were flooded, water rushing beside them in wide brown streams. They crossed an old concrete bridge that usually stood a good thirty feet above the creek bed. Water flowed less than a yard below the roadway.

  As they started up a hill on the other side of the bridge, he reached down to drop the Cherokee into a lower gear, and Kara touched his hand. “Maybe we’d better turn around, head back and go through the main gate. We’re going to get stuck out here.”

  “Nah, we’ll do okay. We’ve only got another couple of miles to go.”

  “I mean it, Mace. I want you to turn around.”

  He pulled to a stop at the crest o
f a hill, staring straight ahead. His voice was icy with anger. “You pulling rank on me?”

  “Don’t start that, Mace, all I’m saying is—”

  “It’s your car, huh? You’re the major, you’re the one gets to decide where we go? You wanna drive? Here.” He opened the door to get out. Needles of rain blew through the door, stinging her face.

  “Mace, don’t be ridiculous….”

  He stepped out, slamming the door. He was walking around the front of the car when he stopped and wiped his face. Then he ran down the hill a few yards and turned and came back. He opened the door and climbed behind the wheel.

  “Look down there!” Mace wiped madly at the windshield. “You see it?”

  Kara squinted into the darkness. “Where?”

  He pointed. “Down there.” He put the Cherokee into first and eased slowly down the hill. The river had overflowed its banks, flooding the road. The Cherokee was axle deep when he shouted: “There!”

  Water rushed by in a violent torrent, nearly covering a car stalled about twenty yards ahead of them. A woman was hanging out the window of the car, her dark hair blowing wildly in the wind. Mace got out and stepped into the rushing water, making his way to the front of the car where he stood in the headlights. Kara knew he was yelling, but she couldn’t hear him. The woman didn’t move.

  Captain Taylor’s fingers found the levers on the control panel in the dark control booth. Below him, a woman with truly huge hair was finishing her introduction. The applause was deafening as General Beckwith stood up and approached the podium.

  Slowly, Randy pressed two of the levers up their slides a notch. Down on the stage of the Officer’s Club ballroom, the effect was subtle, but real. General Beckwith’s face took on a healthy glow in the spots thrown through red and blue gels. Randy turned to the man sitting next to him.

  “He’ll start moving around in a minute, Weyerich. Follow him with the white spot. Widen it out from waist up. Take him head-to-toe when he moves. You’ll wash him out if it’s too intense.”

  “Got you, Captain.”

  Randy opened the door and walked down a set of narrow stairs, opening another door into a back corridor in the Officer’s Club. He passed through the kitchen, stopped and poured himself a cup of coffee, and gnawed on a dinner roll for a few moments. Then he checked his watch and went out the back door to an empty loading dock. He dropped a quarter in a pay phone and dialed.

  “Major, it’s Captain Taylor. I need to talk to the general. It’s an emergency. This storm is getting worse. There’s flooding out near Lawson Army Air Field. They’re afraid the Chattahoochee is going to …” He waited another moment. “Right, sir. I understand. Tell the general I’ll have the staff car outside the front entrance.”

  He hung up the phone and walked down the steps to the waiting staff car. He drove around to the front of the Officer’s Club. The front door burst open. General Beckwith strode purposefully toward the car, surrounded by several officers in their dress blues. One of them opened the back door. Beckwith got in. Randy pulled away.

  “What’d you tell them?” asked Beckwith, leaning forward.

  “The truth. The whole damn post is under water.”

  Beckwith settled back. “Fine job. Damn fine job, Randy.”

  Randy turned a corner, cut the lights, pulling up behind a Toyota parked behind the movie theater. He got out of the car, holding the door for the general, who walked around and slipped easily behind the wheel. Randy saluted smartly.

  “Sir, the radio is tuned to your command frequency.”

  Beckwith saluted. “Right. See you tomorrow morning, son.” Randy ran through the rain and jumped into the Toyota. Beckwith’s staff car disappeared down the alley behind the theater.

  Mace was back at the Cherokee, trembling from the cold. He picked up the cell phone, and dialed 911. The phone beeped twice, and turned itself off. “Out of range.” He threw the Cherokee into reverse and started backing up. “We’ve got to go for help.”

  He reached the crest of the hill and whipped the wheel, turning the car around. He shifted gears and the car lurched down the hill. They were at speed, approaching the low concrete bridge when she screamed: “Mace! Stop!”

  The bridge was flooded. A piece of the side rail broke off and fell into the current.

  Mace picked up the phone again, dialing quickly. It beeped, the lighted dial going dark. He turned around, looking for something in the backseat. “We’ve got to try to get her out of there.”

  He pulled a U-turn and headed back up the hill. As they neared the flooded river, they could see that the woman’s car had slipped a few feet downstream. She had gotten one of her arms out of the window, and was waving.

  “You know how to work the winch on this thing?” He rummaged around in the backseat and came up with the shoulder strap off his overnight bag, quickly fastening it around his waist.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going to hook into the winch. Play out cable until I get to her. When I get out there and get ahold of her, haul me back in.”

  “The current’s too strong, Mace. Are you sure … ?”

  He stepped out of the car. “I’m sure she’s going to die if we don’t get to her.”

  Kara slid over to the driver’s seat. He waded around to the front of the Cherokee, raised a hand, rolling his wrist. Kara hit the winch release, and the drum started to turn with a loud WHIRRR. When a few yards had played out, Mace hooked it into the strap around his waist. Still facing the Cherokee, he backed slowly away from the car until the winch line was tight. Then he turned and plunged into the river.

  The current knocked him from his feet. He regained his footing and leaned into the current, moved a few yards farther and suddenly he disappeared. Kara reversed the winch. He bobbed up, went under, and bobbed up again, hanging on to the cable with both hands. She jumped out of the car and waded into the river, grabbing the winch line, guiding him in. When he reached his feet, he staggered and collapsed into her arms. He was gasping, spitting water. “You … were right. It’s … it’s not going to work.”

  Kara opened the door of the car and stood on the door sill, looking at the dim figure in the headlights. The woman’s head was thrown back. Both arms were out the window now. She was trying to pull herself free.

  Kara shouted at Mace. “See that tree over there?” She pointed to a tall pine about fifteen yards upstream, its trunk awash in the current. “If you get around the tree you can go toward her from upstream. I’ll play out the winch line. You might be able to swim your way out to her.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  She got in the car. He leaned in the door. In the dome light, his eyes were dark, hooded with fear. “Kara, I’m sorry for what I said—”

  She kissed him. “Be careful,” she shouted. The thrum of rain and wind nearly drowned her out.

  He waded through shallow water to the tall pine. Gripping the cable with both hands, he made his way around the trunk of the tree and eased out into the fast current. He let go of the cable and swam a few yards and grabbed on to the branch of a sunken bush. The water was washing in waves over the top of the car now. Waves were crashing into the woman’s face. He knew she wouldn’t last much longer.

  Rain was coming down harder. The Cherokee’s headlights barely illuminated what was happening fifteen yards away from shore. Mace let go of the bush, and the rushing water swept him downstream. He hit the car’s front end, bounced on a wave over the hood and hit the windshield, shattering it. Frantically, he scrambled for a handhold, grabbing the A-pillar on the passenger side. The river was about to wash him downstream when slowly he pulled himself up on the roof of the car. Kara hit the winch release button, stopping it. The Cherokee’s wipers were struggling against the downpour. She stepped out the door to get a better view.

  Mace had his legs wrapped around the A-pillar of the windshield, the river cascading against him, kicking spray in his face. He reached for the woman, grabbing one of her arms. He couldn�
��t move her. He held on to the A-pillar and slid into the water, still trying to work her free from the passenger window. A huge wave rolled over the car, completely swamping it, burying Mace in tons of water. Kara looked desperately for him to surface, but he didn’t show. She was just about to hit the winch and start to drag him in when he burst to the surface. He had an arm around the woman’s neck, and they were in the current, a few yards from the car.

  Kara hit the winch button, and the electric motor started to turn, slowly winding in the cable. The slack snapped out of the cable. Mace clung to it with one hand, his other arm and legs wrapped tightly around the woman’s torso. The winch pulled them a few feet, and a huge wave rolled through and they were swept under. They were out of sight beneath the water for a long moment. Suddenly, an arm thrashed out of the water, and the two of them popped to the surface. Mace struggled to keep their heads above water, kicking wildly against the rushing current.

  Kara jumped from the car and ran through the shallow water. Mace found his footing and stood, carrying the woman. She was limp in his arms. Kara grabbed the winch cable, pulling him to her. Together they slogged through shallow water to solid ground. The woman’s head fell loosely to one side as they laid her down. Her eyes were closed, her mouth frozen open, her white skin painted with debris from the water. There was a cut in her neck, a small one. It wasn’t bleeding.

  “Oh, my God,” gasped Kara.

  Mace grabbed the woman’s head and jerked it backward, chin up. He shouted to Kara: “You know CPR! Push on her chest with the heels of your hands between my breaths!”