“Extraordinary,” the senator said.
“He’s just back from Korea,” Porter Craig went on. “Looking like a young Patton. He has the Distinguished Service Medal and the Silver Star, and God knows what else. There’s barely room for his ribbons on his uniform.”
“Indeed,” the senator said. He wished Porter Craig would make his point.
“I suppose that’s what makes me angry enough to bring this to your attention,” Porter Craig said. “It seems to me that he’s entitled to more from the army, because of what he’s done for the army, than is apparently the case.”
“Go on,” the senator said.
“He told me that he’s about to resign.”
“Did he say why? It would appear to me that with a record like that, he should have a brillant career ahead of him.”
“I suspect that he may have risen a bit too fast,” Porter Craig said. “I suspect there may be some jealousy involved.”
“I’d be surprised if there were not,” the senator said. “But surely, he can rise above that?”
“The reason he gives for resigning from the army is that he thinks he has been removed from consideration for meaningful advancement.”
“Why does he think that?”
“Because of the assignment they’ve given him.”
“Which is?”
Porter Craig was not about to be brought to the point until he was ready to make it.
“And it’s not only Craig who has been, in my judgment, rather shoddily treated. He just graduated, with honors, from the Army School at Fort Knox, second in his class. The honor graduate, Senator, if you can believe this, has been assigned as a dependent housing officer in Massachusetts. Craig, who was second in his class, has been assigned to Bordentown Military Academy, where he says he is in the charge of the sergeant who is teaching the little boys how to march.”
“That doesn’t seem to be a very satisfactory assignment for a bright young major, does it?” the senator asked. “Nor a very wise expenditure of the taxpayer’s dollar?”
“I didn’t think so,” Porter Craig said. “That’s why I called you. I would not ask for special treatment, and he certainly wouldn’t ask for it himself. But I don’t think I am asking for special treatment when I bring what I consider an outrageous waste of the taxpayer’s dollar to your attention.”
And just incidentally, the senator thought, keep Cousin Craig from coming home again and claiming his half of Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes, Inc.
“You don’t happen to know the number of the course he attended at Fort Knox, do you?” the Senator asked.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Well, I can find out,” the senator said. “I’ll get back to you, Porter. I understand the situation. Sometimes, you have to call the military to attention.”
“As I say, I’m not seeking any special treatment for my cousin,” Porter Craig said. The senator was annoyed.
“But if it could be arranged to keep him in the army, fine, is that it?”
There was a long pause.
“That would seem to sum it up rather aptly, Senator,” Porter Craig said finally.
“I’ll see what small influence I have on the Pentagon can do for you, Porter,” the senator said. “In the meantime, try to talk him out of submitting his resignation.”
(Two)
Washington, D.C.
19 October 1952
The senator met the Vice Chief of Staff of the United States Army at a cocktail party and dinner given in honor of the junior senator from Iowa at the Occidental Restaurant by the American Farm Machinery Foundation.
“Tell me, General,” the senator said, laying a fraternal arm around the Vice Chief of Staff’s shoulders, “how is your new personnel system working out? Is it getting round pegs in round holes, or are you still trying to make bakers out of candlestick makers and vice versa?”
The Vice Chief of Staff of the U.S. Army knew the question was not idle.
“So far as I know, Senator,” he said, “it’s working out very well.”
“The right officer in the right assignment, right?”
“We try to do our best, Senator,” the Vice Chief of Staff said.
“And how often does that work?”
“How about ninety-nine times out of a hundred?”
“You don’t mean to say?”
“Have you something specific in mind, Senator?” the Vice Chief of Staff asked.
“I was wondering about the school system, as a matter of fact,” the senator said.
“What, sir, were you wondering?”
“Whether it’s really worth all the money it costs the poor taxpayer.”
“Well, if a man can’t drive a truck when we get him, and we need truck drivers, we have to teach him how to drive one. It’s as simple as that.”
“I was thinking more of the officer-level schools.”
“What level?”
“The Advanced Officer’s Courses. Are they really necessary?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you can put their graduates to work, doing what they’re trained to do?”
“We can, and we do.”
“You don’t mean to say!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And after they’re trained, right into that little round hole, right? Presuming it’s a little round officer?”
“To the best of my knowledge, Senator,” the Vice Chief of Staff said. He wondered what the hell the senator was leading up to.
“If we were playing poker, General,” the senator said, “would you bet on that hand? Or would you want to see if you could draw some better cards?”
“I’ve got all the cards I need, thank you, Senator,” the Vice Chief of Staff said.
“I’ll call,” the senator said. “Get out your little notebook, Son,” he said to the silver-haired, full bird colonel aide-de-camp of the Vice Chief of Staff.
“I didn’t hear the bet,” the Vice Chief of Staff said with a broad smile that showed just faint signs of strain.
“You’re telling me you’re assigning officers so that their service, in terms of their records and the expensive education the taxpayer has bought for them, will give the taxpayer the best possible return on his investment,” the senator said. “I’m betting you’re not.”
“But what’s the bet?”
“Just a fun game, between friends,” the senator said. “Now, just for the hell of it, let’s find out—picking something out of the air, you understand—how you assigned the two officers at the top of their class at the last Advanced Officer’s Class at Fort Knox. The last class, I believe, was Number 52-16. You write that down, Son, so we all remember. I would be very interested to know who they are, what kind of records they have, what their assignments are, and why they were made.”
“You get that, Dick?” the Vice Chief of Staff said to his aide.
“Yes, sir.”
“Put it in writing, General,” the senator said. “You’re a silver-tongued devil, you are, always making me think you said something you didn’t say.”
(Three)
Fort Devens, Massachusetts
25 October 1952
In addition to his other duties, the assistant dependent housing officer at Fort Devens, Massachusetts, had been assigned as assistant club officer. The club officer himself, a major of the Transportation Corps, set a fine table, as they say, but he wasn’t much with the books. Taking care of the books was just the job for a jigaboo captain who had been the honor graduate of the Advanced Course at Knox.
When four telephone calls, spaced at precise forty-five-minute intervals, failed to raise Captain Philip Sheridan Parker IV at his bachelor officer’s quarters number, his caller, somewhat embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of this before, told the long distance operator to try to locate Captain Parker at the officer’s club.
There was the sound of a barroom.
“Officer’s open mess, main bar room, Sergeant Feeney, sir.”
“Long distance is calling Captain P. S. Parker,” the operator intoned.
“I’m not sure if he’s here,” the sergeant said.
“Look for him,” the caller said, flatly.
“I beg your pardon?” the sergeant-bartender said.
“I said, look for him,” the caller repeated.
“May I ask who’s calling, please, sir?”
“This is Colonel Philip Sheridan Parker,” the caller said.
There was a long wait, and then the click of an extension telephone being lifted.
“Captain Parker, sir.”
“You may get off the line, Sergeant,” Colonel Parker said.
The background sound of the barroom vanished.
“Hey, Dad, how are you? Is anything wrong?” Phil Parker asked, concern in his voice.
“Nothing is wrong. Is this telephone relatively secure?”
“Nobody else is on it, if that’s what you mean. You sound upset, Dad. Is something wrong?”
“Have you been considering resignation?”
Phil Parker hesitated a moment before replying. “The thought has run through my mind,” he said. “I haven’t done anything about it.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Colonel Parker said.
Phil didn’t reply.
“Have you been drinking?” Colonel Parker asked.
“No, but that’s one thought that really has been going through my mind.” And then he understood the reason for the question. “Oh,” he said. “In addition to my other duties, I am assistant club officer. I’ve been going over the books. That’s why I’m here.”
“I would like to suggest that you put off any action with regard to resignation for a while,” Colonel Parker said.
“Dad, I have no intention of spending my life fighting with dependent wives about grease spots on kitchen walls, or counting bottles of whiskey and A-1 sauce in officer’s clubs. A classmate of mine is in the shipping business in Boston. He’s offering me a hell of a lot of money, and the chance to live for a couple of years in Africa.”
“You’re a soldier,” his father said.
“I’m beginning to have serious doubts about that,” Phil Parker replied.
“I had a telephone call late this afternoon from an officer with whom I served in Europe. I am not at liberty to provide his name.”
“And?”
“This officer is also a soldier,” Colonel Parker said. “He leads me to believe that your situation is not quite as hopeless as you might think.”
“Club officers are in short supply,” Parker said.
“Two things are about to happen,” Colonel Parker said. “You are about to be transferred, within the next couple of weeks, from Fort Devens.”
“No kidding? Where am I going?”
“He didn’t say,” Colonel Parker said. “But he said that you are also going to be offered an opportunity which will provide a chance for you to get your career back on the tracks.”
Phil Parker didn’t reply.
“I will not bore you with maudlin tales of unpleasant assignments I had,” Colonel Parker said. “You’re a man. You’ll have to make your own decisions. I would suggest, however, that whatever you’re thinking of doing can wait for three months.”
“You’re not going to tell me who called?”
“Nothing more than to tell you he is a general officer for whom I have a good deal of respect. And affection, too, if that seems germane to you.”
“I don’t understand how he knew I was thinking of resigning,” Phil Parker said. “I haven’t mentioned that to anybody.”
“We go back a long time together, Phil,” Colonel Parker said. “He once dissuaded me from resigning.”
“OK, Dad. I’ll wait a while.”
“Your mother said to tell you the young lady in the photograph is quite handsome.”
“And what do you think?”
“I have been wondering if there is something significant in your having sent her photograph at all.”
“She’s really something special,” Phil Parker said. “I met her at the Pops.”
“The orchestra? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes,” Phil said.
“Who introduced you?” his father asked.
“You really want to know?” Phil said, and chuckled. “Well, what I did, Dad, was walk up and hand her my card. I said I’d call her. Her date didn’t like that at all. But he wasn’t large enough to react violently.”
“L’audace, l’audace, toujours l’audace,” Colonel Parker said, a faint chuckle in his voice.
“She’s a pathologist,” Phil said. “What do you think about that?”
“A medical doctor?”
“At Harvard Medical School,” Phil said. His father heard a touch of pride in his son’s voice.
“I’m impressed,” Colonel Parker said. Then, bluntly, “What kind of an officer’s wife do you think she’d make?”
“Because she’s a doctor, you mean?”
“Because she’s a Negro,” his father replied.
“They say ‘black’ now, Dad.”
“You’ve thought about that, however?”
“Oh, yeah,” Phil Parker said. “Her parents don’t think much of soldiers.”
“Few people do,” Colonel Parker said.
“I’ve got to throw that into the equation, too, Dad.”
“Contemplation of marriage is the one exception to the rule that any action is better than none,” Colonel Parker said.
“I’ll let you know what happens,” Phil Parker said.
“Don’t act hastily, Philip,” his father said. “Whatever you do.”
(Four)
Bordentown, N.J.
23 October 1952
The Bordentown Military Academy took pride in the medical care, routine and emergency, it provided for the Corps of Cadets. The medical staff included a full-time physician, given the brevet rank of major, and four registered nurses, one brevet captain and three brevet first lieutenants.
Since no member of the Corps of Cadets happened to be confined in dispensary with any of the illnesses which strike boys in either their immediate postpuberty or teenage years, Evelyn Wood, R.N., was not required to remain in the eight-bed dispensary, but was instead required only to be in white uniform, to remain on the campus, and to keep the school switchboard operators and the duty officer aware of her location.
Her crisp white uniform was carefully laid on top of her red-lined nurse’s cape, and her underthings were laid on top of the uniform, all of it on one of the two small upholstered chairs provided for each of the bedrooms in staff quarters number two.
Evelyn Wood herself, when the telephone rang, was lying naked on her stomach between the legs of Major Craig W. Lowell, who was the duty officer and similarly obliged to remain on campus in a location where the telephone operator could immediately locate him.
At the first ring, he reached down and gently but firmly disengaged Nurse Wood’s mouth, and then turned on his side and reached for the telephone.
“Duty officer,” he said. “Major Lowell.”
She understood his concern, but she really would have taken great pains not to bite it off. Slightly piqued, she thought that at least he could have said, “Excuse me.”
Evelyn Wood had seen Major Craig Lowell the day he reported for duty, a week late, for the fall semester. She wasn’t exactly proud of how far she’d had to go to get them where they were, but on the other hand, there weren’t that many good-looking single men who drove red Lincoln Continental convertibles around Bordentown, and desperate measures had been necessary.
He simply hadn’t been interested in her at first. She had hoped that she would have a chance to meet him, more or less alone, somewhere on the campus, at the movies, someplace like that, but the only times she saw him were in staff quarters, and then he had looked right through her.
He spent his weekends off campus, leaving just as soon as he could on Friday afternoons and returning very late
on Sunday.
What she’d had to do was lie in wait for him in the dispensary, when he was the duty officer and required to check on the dispensary twice during his tour of duty. She’d told him that since he had to be up anyway, he should come by her quarters after she finished her tour at midnight, and she would give him a cup of coffee.
He hadn’t come. Instead, he had telephoned her quarters and told her to come to his, unless what she really had in mind was coffee.
That had been really humiliating, going down the corridor in her dressing gown, a shameless admission that what they both had in mind was s-x, instead of making a friendship that might result in courtship, and only then, possibly, s-x. She had really been tempted to turn around and tell him to go to hell.
But she had gone to his quarters and ten minutes after she walked in the door, she had been in his bed, and God, he was good there. Once they’d started, it was really actually better than it would have been the other way. There was something very exciting about not putting up any phony modesty and pretense. When she got turned on, anything went, and anything she wanted to do was fine with him.
She found out that he was a widower with a little boy, and the idea of an instant family finally had given her cause for concern, until she realized, feeling something like a fool, that he hadn’t come within a hundred miles of suggesting anything like making anything of their relationship.
He too her out sometimes during the week, on her two nights off, to Trenton, and once to Philadelphia. He took her to really nice places, as if money didn’t mean a thing to him. It would have been nicer if she had more seniority and got weekends off, but she didn’t, and she hadn’t really expected him to hang around the campus. He still went to New York or someplace every weekend.
All she could hope for, Evelyn Wood told herself, was that their relationship would gradually ripen. She knew he liked her.
“Is that you, Craig?” a woman’s voice asked. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“Who’s this?”
“I’m crushed that you don’t remember,” she said. “This is Barbara Bellmon.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said.
“Probably,” she said. “What are you doing? Can you talk?”
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“Actually,” she said, “Bob wants to talk to you.” He heard her say, “Craig is on the line, honey.”
The Captains Page 40