But Jiggs had been lucky. His breakout, thanks to the cooperation of the enemy, had been successful. And so had his withdrawal from the Yalu when the Chinese came in. The 73rd Tank had come out of that smelling like a rose. Just luck. If General Almond had been as impressed with the 73rd Heavy Tank Battalion as they would have you believe, he would never have given it up to IX Corps. He had been very glad to get rid of it probably, if the truth were known. Let somebody else clean up the mess they had made for themselves.
Jiggs was a sonofabitch; there was no mistake about that. When Colonel Minor had sent a fully qualified major to be the 73rd Heavy Tank’s S-3, instead of being grateful to Minor, he had called Minor to protest; and when Minor had told him that he was simply complying with regulations and policy, as well as the general’s personal directive to him to make sure that the IX Corps officer corps was brought up to snuff, Colonel Jiggs had announced that he was going to personally protest to the commanding general.
At first Minor had thought that was just an idle threat, but his friend, the assistant to the Secretary of the General Staff, a fine young lieutenant, had telephoned him the night before to say that Colonel Jiggs had requested and been granted a personal interview with the general.
Colonel Jiggs was up there in the White House now with the general, and God only knows what allegations and outright untruths he was making.
One could not permit oneself to dwell on things like that. One was far better off simply putting them out of one’s mind and going on with one’s duty.
He was still thinking about how the administration of the army could really be fouled up unless there was someone in charge who knew precisely what he was doing, when his General Staff telephone buzzed. The general had a special telephone circuit, giving him instant communication with his General Staff. When he dialed 1, the G-1’s (Colonel Minor’s) telephone rang.
“Minor, sir,” Colonel Minor said, catching it before it had a chance to ring again.
“Come up, will you?” the general said, and hung up.
Colonel Minor strapped on his web belt and .45 and then stepped in front of the mirror to make sure that his face was clean, that his camouflage parachute scarf was properly folded around his neck, and that the sandbag cover on his helmet was still drawn tautly. And then he walked quickly up the hill to the White House.
(Three)
Colonel Jiggs was with the general when Colonel Minor reported, saluting crisply and remaining at attention until told to stand at ease. He was pleased to see that Jiggs was wearing his pearl-handled, gussied-up, chrome-plated .45 in a civilian shoulder holster. The general wasn’t going to like that. He would have thought that Jiggs would have had more sense than to wear it.
“You know Colonel Jiggs, of course, Colonel,” the general said.
Jiggs, who was sprawled in a most unmilitary fashion in one of the general’s folding canvas chairs, made no move to get up or shake Minor’s hand, and when Minor started toward him, he waved at him.
“I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, sarcastically.
“Colonel Jiggs is a bit upset about his S-3,” the general said. “Let’s hear your side of it.”
A bit upset, Colonel Jiggs thought, was the fucking understatement of the year. What he would like to do is ram a shovel up the ass of this paper-pushing sonofabitch, and then spin it around and jerk his chickenshit guts out with it.
“I can’t imagine why there is any cause for concern, sir. I’ve managed to acquire for Colonel Jiggs a fully qualified major, who was second in his class at Leavenworth. He has four years in grade as a major, and this assignment is right for him at this point in his career and right for the 73rd Tank, who obviously needs a fully qualified officer.”
“And did Colonel Jiggs tell you that he was perfectly satisfied with his present S-3?” the general asked.
“I believe the colonel mentioned something along those lines.”
“I told you, Colonel,” Jiggs said, “that Lowell is the best S-3 I’ve ever known, that I couldn’t do without him, and that if you persisted in this business, I would take it up with the general,” Jiggs said. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our little discussion so soon, Colonel.”
Jiggs got a dirty look from the general, and reminded himself again that he would gain nothing by losing his temper.
“He is not really qualified, Colonel, no matter how well he’s been able to fill in the breach,” Colonel Minor said, reasonably.
“Sir,” Jiggs interrupted, “Major Lowell did so well that we gave him the DSC.”
“I consider that award, given under those circumstances, somewhat questionable,” Colonel Minor said.
“Fortunately for the major, then,” Jiggs said icily, “we’ll just have to go with the decision of General Walker. General Walker gave Major Lowell his DSC.”
“Be that as it may—” Minor began.
“I have just told the general,” Jiggs interrupted him again, “that in addition to the DSC, I got him the DSM for the way he pulled us out of North Korea when the chinks came in.”
He had not told the general that the last man in the world he expected to see on the Yalu was Major Craig W. Lowell. He would have bet his last dime, right after the link-up, that he, as well as the U.S. Army, had seen the last of Major Craig W. Lowell.
He had started getting what the army called “senatorial inquiries” about Lowell right after Lowell had been flown out of Seoul and put on compassionate leave. He’d gotten four or five of them a day. Lowell had a lot of friends in very high places, and those friends were not at all concerned that the army was in a war. They wanted Lowell instantly returned to the United States on the first available air transport, and they wanted his application for release from active duty, on compassionate grounds, approved yesterday.
At first Jiggs had been a little pissed. The army took care of its own. The wheels to get an officer whose wife had been killed home to his child had already been in high gear when Lowell arrived in Osan. He had been in Germany five days later.
But then he realized that under the same circumstances, if he had the clout, he would have done exactly the same thing.
And then, not quite a month later, Major Lowell had walked into his tent in North Korea.
“You should let a fellow know where you’ve moved,” he said.
“What the fuck are you doing back here?”
“I’m here for duty, Colonel, if you’ll have me,” Lowell said, and there had been something in his eyes that had kept Jiggs from asking any further questions.
It wasn’t until later, until just before the chinks came in, that he got an answer. They had an hour or so alone and a bottle of scotch, and Jiggs had asked him if he was hearing from Germany.
“I get a letter a week,” Lowell said. “Teutonic efficiency.”
“Is your boy getting adequate care?” Jiggs asked.
“He’s surrounded by relatives,” Lowell said. “He lives in a castle. In the castle in which his mother is buried. And her mother. And his side of the family going back five hundred years.”
It had poured out of him then, and Jiggs had sat and listened.
His mother was in and out of mental hospitals. His father was dead. His only blood relative was a banker he couldn’t stand. The only home life, as Colonel Paul T. Jiggs understood the term, had been with the German girl he had married.
“So there I sat, Colonel,” Lowell had told him, “in a crypt. Like a goddamned Boris Karloff movie. With a bottle of scotch. Looking at a piece of marble on which somebody had chiseled Ilse Elizabeth Lowell, Gräfin von Greiffenberg, 1929–1950, Requiescat in Pace. My wife was behind that fucking piece of marble, and I was thinking that I was never, really never, going to see her again. And then, as drunk as I was, I had a clear thought: I didn’t belong in that goddamned crypt. And neither did I belong in the States, which everyone from my fucking cousin to my father-in-law was telling me was best thing for me, under the circumstances. I suddenly realized where I belonge
d.”
“You don’t mean here?” Jiggs asked.
“Yeah, ain’t that a bitch? That’s just what I thought.”
“You’re going to stay in the army?”
“Don’t laugh. It’s the only home I’ve ever really had. The only friends I have are soldiers.”
“There are worse ways to spend your life,” Jiggs said.
“Investment banking being high on that list. What do you think my chances are for a regular commission?”
“You should be a shoo-in,” Jiggs had told him. “They don’t pass out that many DSCs. And not many people get to be majors at twenty-four.”
“You think I can keep the majority?”
“I think so,” Jiggs had said. He had vowed then to do what he could, and he had, and now this paper-shuffling asshole was trying to shove another asshole into Lowell’s job.
“As far as I’m concerned, Colonel,” Colonel Jiggs said, relatively calmly, “an officer who had demonstrated his skills in a mess like the bug-out from the Yalu is a hell of a lot more qualified than the number two man at C&GS.”
Colonel Minor’s silence, as he well knew, eloquently said, “So what?”
“And where is it your intention to assign this outstanding young major?” the general said.
“That did pose a problem, sir,” Colonel Minor said. “As you point out, Major Lowell is very young. As a general personnel policy, it is ill-advised to put an officer in a position where he is younger than his subordinates.”
“What do you plan to do with him, Minor?” Jiggs said.
“I thought I would bring him here, sir,” Colonel Minor said. “And give him some staff experience at this level of command.”
“Where?” Jiggs pursued. The general gave him a pained look.
“In civil affairs and military government, actually,” Colonel Minor said.
“That’s going to look great on his service record,” Jiggs said, sarcastically. “From S-3 of a combat command to civil affairs.”
You’re a fine one talk about careers, Colonel Minor thought. The way you ruined careers of regular officers by summary relief. He said: “He’s a National Guardsman, he really doesn’t have a career.”
“He’s applied for the regular army, and I have heartily endorsed his application,” Jiggs said.
“If he is accepted into the regular army, it will be as a first lieutenant, possibly even a second lieutenant, considering his age…” Minor said.
“In which case, I have recommended that he be retained on active duty in his reserve grade,” Jiggs said. “I don’t want that boy’s career ruined by a tour as a civil affairs officer.”
“I would hardly say ruined,” Minor said.
“I don’t really much care what you would hardly say, Colonel,” Jiggs snapped.
“Take it easy, Jiggs,” the general said.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Jiggs said.
“How much time has he got to do in Korea?” the general asked.
“About four months, sir,” Jiggs said. “He’s been here ten months, maybe eleven.”
The general suddenly stood up and walked to a connecting door.
“John, can you come in here a minute?” he said. A very small major general in a starch-stiff set of fatigues walked into the room. Jiggs jumped to attention.
“John, we have a problem officer,” the general said. “According to Colonel Minor, he’s wholly unqualified to be what Colonel Jiggs says he is, the best S-3 he’s ever known.”
The little general looked amused.
“Do I have to take sides, sir?” he asked.
“He’s also the young buck who ran that cavalry sweep through South Korea during the breakout. So he’s only got about four months to go in Korea,” the general said. “Jiggs is afraid that a tour in civil affairs, which is what Minor recommends, would look lousy on his service record.”
“Jiggs is right,” the little general said.
“You need an aide,” the corps commander went on. “Presuming the chemistry is all right, would you be interested in him?”
“What do you think, Jiggs?” the little major general asked.
“I think Major Lowell would make the general a very fine aide-de-camp, sir.”
“OK,” the corps commander said. “I’ve just done my Solomon act for today. You two may go.”
“How soon do I get him?” the small major general asked.
“Today, sir, if you like,” Jiggs said. “Colonel Minor has been very efficient in sending me his replacement.”
“One more thing,” the small major general said. “Knowing you, Jiggs, I just have to ask. Is he housebroken?”
“Not only that, sir, but he can read and write. He wrote, for example, our battalion motto.”
The little general laughed. “If that’s going to go in the history books, you’re going to have to have it translated into Latin. The general and I were talking about that last night. It belongs at C&GS, of course, as a morale booster. But how are you going to put it in the manual?”
“Cooperation with the 73rd Tank Battalion is expected and anticipated,” Colonel Jiggs said. “Our disappointment will be manifested by the violent insertion of a sports implement into the anal orifice.”
“Good to see you, Jiggs,” the little general said, chuckling. “Come on up and have dinner sometime.” He looked at the corps commander and got silent approval to leave.
Jiggs came to attention.
“Thank you, general,” he said.
“OK, Jiggs,” the corps commander said, “I hope you’re satisfied.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you very much,” Jiggs said, and saluted and walked out of the general’s office.
Well, you win some and you lose some. That was about a tie, Colonel Minor thought.
XI
(One)
Kwandae-Ri, North Korea
18 August 1951
“E.Z., I hate to speak to you like a battalion commander to an overzealous shavetail,” the Supreme Commander, United Nations Command said to the commanding general of the United States XIX Corps (Group). “But you are obviously in need of guidance.”
“With all due respect, sir, has the Supreme Commander ever heard of the phrase, ‘the blind guiding the blind’?” Lieutenant General. E. Z. Black replied.
“When the last Supreme Commander gave the faintest hint that something would please him….”
“With all due and profound respect, sir, you ain’t the last Supreme Commander.”
“His subordinate commanders fell all over themselves,” the Supreme Commander went on, “in the eagerness to make him happy. This is known in some circles as ‘cheerful and willing obedience to the lawful orders of a superior officer.’”
“Will you settle for ‘senior’ officer?” the XIX Corps (Group) commander asked, innocently.
“If you understand that that’s an order, I will,” the Supreme Commander said.
They were sitting alone at the fieldstone bar of the general officer’s mess of XIX Corps (Group), a room known as the Jade Room after the XIX Corps’ radio code name, Jade. They were drinking, neat, 24-year-old Ambassador scotch, brought to Korea by the Supreme Commander, United Nations Command.
“I’ve only been here a couple of months, Matt,” Lieutenant General E. Z. Black said. “It’s not time for me to take an R&R.”
“A couple is two,” the UN Commander said. “You’ve been here four. During which time you have put in eighteen-hour days, seven days a week. And you’re not, although you sometimes act like one, a twenty-three-year-old cavalry lieutenant any more.”
“Woman works from sun to sun, but a gen’rul’s work is never done,” General Black said.
“I don’t know why the hell I’m arguing with you,” the Supreme Commander said. “Now, whether you want to accept it as your due for breaking your ass straightening out XIX Corps in half the time I thought it would take you—and I mean that, E. Z., you’ve done a hell of a job—or the concern of an old friend who doe
sn’t want you dropping dead of a heart attack brought on by overwork, you will take seven days rest and recuperation leave in connection with TDY to Tokyo. This is an order.”
General Black sipped at his scotch, then raised his glass to the Supreme Commander, giving in.
“The troops call it ‘I&I,’” he said. “For ‘Intercourse and Intoxication.’ I’m a little old for that.”
“As Georgie Patton once said, ‘A soldier who won’t fuck, won’t fight,’” the Supreme Commander said.
“That wasn’t Georgie, that was Phil Sheridan,” the XIX Corps commander said.
“You have reservations at the Imperial Hotel for seven days, starting next Friday.”
“Why then?”
“Because that’s the soonest Marilyn could get over here,” the UN Commander said.
“Marilyn’s coming over?” General Black asked. Marilyn was Mrs. Black.
“I called her up. And told her I felt duty bound to report that word had reached me you were carousing with Oriental ladies.”
“You’re capable of that, you bastard,” the XIX Corps commander said.
“And since Marilyn is flying halfway around the world to save her marriage, the least you can do is show up at the Imperial, sober, shaven, and wearing a smile.”
“It’ll cost a fortune to fly her way out here,” E. Z. Black said.
“You cheap sonofabitch,” the Supreme Commander said. “You’ve got more money than Carter has liver pills.”
“I don’t know how well this is going to sit with the troops,” E. Z. Black said. “They don’t get their wives to come out here.”
“They’re not lieutenant generals, either. For Christ’s sake, E. Z., they like that sort of thing. Their general is supposed to be somebody special, to do special things. About the only way you can tell a general officer from a PFC these days is because the general is usually older and fatter.”
“It smacks of special privilege,” E. Z. Black insisted. “It is special privilege.”
“Let me worry about that,” the UN Commander said, and his voice showed impatience. “If you weren’t rich, E. Z., you wouldn’t think twice about it. You lean so far over backward, you’re always falling on your ass.”
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