W E B Griffin - BoW 04 - The Colonels

by The Colonels(Lit)

  Melody, surprising him, came to him. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

  "Thank you," she said.

  And then she surprised him even more. She put her arms around him, and laid her head on his chest. He put his arm around her, and felt a wave of tenderness for her. Then he bent his head and kissed her hair. He was aware that he was actually on the edge of tears himself.

  "I am so happy," Jannier announced, his voice breaking.

  Lowell drank a glass of champagne with them, and then he got in his car and went to meet Jane Cassidy in the Pigglywiggly parking lot.

  (Two) Office of the Deputy Commandant for Special Projects The U.S. Army Special Warfare School Fort Bragg. North Carolina 0745 Hours, 26 January 1959

  Lieutenant Colonel Rudolph G. Macmillan was aware that he had a problem. Early the previous afternoon, Colonel Paul Hanrahan had given him his first real assignment. He was to develop a plan for the recruitment of 1,000 officers and men, in a ratio of roughly one officer to six men.

  The officers were to be lieutenants and captains, although specially qualified majors might be considered. The noncoms were to be in the top three enlisted grades, although specially qualified enlisted men in lower grades might also be considered.

  They were to have unblemished records, although in the case of specially qualified enlisted men, this might be waived-so long as the blemish was not enough to prevent the issuance of a Secret or Top Secret security clearance.

  At least seventy-five percent of those recruited were to be qualified parachutists. Others had to be willing to volunteer for parachute training, and thus they had to be able to pass a physical examination certifying they were fit for parachute jumping.

  At least eighty percent of those recruited had to be able to read and write a foreign language. And of that group, a further eighty percent had to be able to speak, read, and write the Spanish language. At least fifty percent of the officers had to be of "combat arms" that is infantry, armor, or artillery. At least twenty-five percent had to be from the signal corps. At least five percent had to be physicians.

  Hanrahan had told him he was not to be concerned with the objections of commanding officers. The Assistant Chief of Staff, Personnel, had been directed to effect the transfers of people Hanrahan wanted. The only problem was to find them.

  There were other qualifications and restrictions. Macmillan had worked late into the night trying to draft a recruiting plan. All he had managed to do, so far, was the basic arithmetic. One thousand officers and men in a 6-to-I ratio meant 167 officers and 833 men. Eight hundred, total, had to speak a foreign language, and of that 800, 640 had to speak Spanish. He needed eight and a half doctors, six and one quarter of whom had to be qualified parachutists, and six and one half of whom had to speak Spanish.

  He had, in other words, a lined tablet page and a half full of meaningless figures, and absolutely no idea how to proceed. He was about to make an ass of himself in front of Hanrahan, which would make it clear that he was a fucking dumbbell who had to be led around by the hand.

  There was a knock at his door.

  "Come in!"

  It was Second Lieutenant Thomas J. Ellis, of the 82nd Airborne Division, and right now the last thing Macmillan needed was a second john wet behind the ears.

  "What the hell do you want?" he snapped, and was immediately sorry.

  Ellis marched into the office and saluted.

  "Sir, I'm sorry to bother you," he said, "but I wanted to give you this."

  Ellis laid four fifty dollar bills on Macmillan's desk, and then returned to attention.

  "Oh, stand at ease," Mac said. "Sit down, as a matter of fact. You want some coffee?"

  "I don't want to take up your time, Colonel," Ellis said.

  "Sit," Macmillan said, pointing. Then he stood up and turned to his coffee maker and poured some coffee in mugs. "How do you take it?"

  "Black, please, sir."

  Macmillan handed him the mug.

  "Got a partial pay, did you? You got enough left until payday? This one and the next one?"

  "It could be considered a partial pay, sir," Ellis said.

  "If I didn't know better, I would guess you were playing poker again, Lieutenant," Macmillan said.

  "No comment, sir," Ellis said, with a smile.

  "Well, if you're sure you've got enough to carry you?"

  "More than enough, sir," Ellis said. "I even made the down payment on a car. It's not much, but it's better than walking."

  "I'm sorry I snapped at you," Macmillan said. "I've got problems."

  "You don't have to waste time with me, sir, to be polite," Ellis said, starting to get to his feet.

  "Sit," Macmillan ordered again.

  "Yes, sir." Macmillan looked at him and smiled. He looked, in his immaculate uniform, like a recruiting poster. The brand-new shave tail parachutist, hair closely cropped, nothing on his uniform but his wings and his gold bars.

  "What do you think of the division?" Mac asked.

  "It's not very interesting," Ellis said. "Not what I thought it would be."

  "You have probably been assigned as assistant supply officer, reenlistment officer, army welfare officer, and VD control officer, in addition to your other duties?" Mac asked.

  "Yes, sir."

  "It'll pass, in time," Mac said. "Standard procedure."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Tell me, Ellis, how is the division fixed for spies?"

  "I don't understand the question, Colonel," Ellis said, a little stiffly.

  "How many taco eaters? You know what a spic is, don't you?"

  "Yes, sir, I know what a spic is," Ellis said.

  "I'm in the market for spies," Mac said. "That's why I asked."

  "Sir?"

  "My perfect spic is a combat arms officer, jump qualified, who reads, writes, and speaks spic like a spic," Mac said. "I need 167 of them, preferably lieutenants or captains. They have to be volunteers."

  "Because of what's happening in Cuba, you mean, Colonel?" Ellis asked.

  "They're planning to use Green Berets?"

  "I didn't say that," Macmillan said.

  Ellis stood up, came to attention, and a stream of rapid Spanish came out of him. "What the hell was that?" Macmillan said.

  "That was Spanish, sir. What I said was that I hoped the colonel will grant me the honor of pennitting me to volunteer."

  "Where the hell did you learn to speak Spanish?" Macmillan asked.

  "From my mother, sir. I'm half Puerto Rican. I suppose you could say that makes me fifty percent spic."

  Macmillan's already ruddy face flushed red.

  "Ellis, I didn't mean to..

  "I've heard it before, Colonel," Ellis said. "If you live in Spanish Harlem and look like an anglo, you learn pretty quick what the anglos think of the spies and what the spies think of anglos."

  "I didn't mean to say anything..

  "Sir, I'm dead serious about wanting to volunteer," Ellis said.

  Hanrahan's voice, distorted but recognizable, came over the intercom: "Mac, how're you coming with the recruiting plan? Can I have a look at it?"

  Macmillan looked at his watch. It was 7:55. Hanrahan had said "in the morning." He wanted the plan now, and it wasn't even started.

  "I'm interviewing an officer right now, Colonel," Macmillan said.

  "One meeting the specs, or one you dragged off the street?"

  "A Spanish-speaking, jump-qualified infantryman, sir."

  "This I've got to see," Hanrahan said. "Bring him in."

  "You've got between now and the time we get to the colonel's office to change your mind, Ellis," Mac said.

  "Thank you, Colonel," Ellis said.

  They marched in side by side, the nearly middle-aged lieutenant colonel who was the most highly decorated officer on the post and the teenaged second lieutenant fresh from OCS. They saluted the commandant, and when he had returned it, they stood at attention before his desk. The comparison was not lost on Paul Hanrahan.
<
br />   "You two look like

  "Before' and

  "After," " he said. He offered his hand to Lieutenant Ellis. "My name is Hanrahan, Lieutenant. Sit down and tell me why you'd like to join Special Forces."

  Macmillan was surprised and relieved to hear Ellis's answers. Ellis told Hanrahan he thought that Special Forces would "be interesting," and that it would give him an opportunity to learn skills which would be valuable to him later.

  "And you like the glamour, too, I suppose?" Hanrahan said. "I understand the ladies look on Special Forces that way, sir," Ellis said.

  Hanrahan asked him a few questions. He had already made up his mind to take one or two bushy-tailed, virginal shave tails into Special Forces, not for the contribution they could be expected to make, but to see how much training they could absorb in a short period of time. This second lieutenant would serve that purpose. He Wondered where Macmillan had found him on such short notice.

  He called the sergeant major on the intercom, and asked him to send Master Sergeant Jesus Santana in. Santana, a swarthy bull of a man, came in a minute or two later.

  "Colonel Macmillan tells me this officer is fluent in Spanish, Santana," Hanrahan said. "I don't think he's qualified to judge."

  Santana spoke to Ellis for several minutes, then rendered his judgment.

  "He's perfectly fluent, sir," he reported. "Actually, he speaks rather Castilian Spanish, as opposed to Puerto Rican or Mexican."

  "We had Spanish nuns in school, sir," Ellis said.

  "When would you like to come over here, Lieutenant?" Hanrahan asked.

  "This afternoon, sir," Ellis replied immediately.

  "I'd hoped," Macmillan said, "to use Lieutenant Ellis as my translator.

  To see that people really speak Spanish."

  "That makes sense," Hanrahan said.

  In bringing in Ellis, Macmillan was dropping another hot potato in his lap sooner than he had expected. There were going to be howls of rage from the 82nd Airborne, from XVII Airborne Corps, and from other units at Bragg (because they were mostly paratroops, the majority of his new people would have to come from Bragg). He knew the sooner he got through that fight, the better.

  He took the Fort Bragg telephone directory from his desk drawer, and found the number of the XVII Airborne Corps G- 1 (Deputy Chief of Staff, Personnel). He dialed the number, then asked for the G- 1.

  "Colonel," he said, "this is Colonel Hanrahan of the Specml Warfare School. I wondered if you had gotten the TWX about my authority to recruit for Special Forces?"

  He listened for a full minute, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was cold and abrupt.

  "It is not my understanding, Colonel, that I am to be offered my choice of personnel from rosters prepared by anyone. It is my understanding that I have been given authority to recruit whomever I please. Will it be necessary for me to seek clarification from DC SOPS

  There was a much shorter reply.

  "I am about to put a Lieutenant Ellis on the horn, Colonel. He will give you his serial number and organization. Please see that he is transferred to me, effective today. Thank you very much."

  He took the telephone from his ear and extended it to Ellis.

  If Hanrahan stays mad, and asks me for my plan, Mac Macmillan thought, my ass is still going to be in a crack. But if he doesn't ask me for it, I'm home free. I can stall for a day. And in a day I can find somebody maybe even Ellis who can write a god damned plan.

  (Three) Office of the President The Army Aviation Board Laird Army Airfield Fort Rucker, Alabama 0815 Hours, 26 January 1959

  There were two civilians in Colonel Bill Roberts's office when Major Craig W. Lowell, in an impeccably tailored uniform but without ribbons-marched in and saluted.

  "Good morning, sir," Lowell said. "You wanted to see me?"

  "I'd hoped to see you wearing your ribbons, Major," Bill Roberts said coldly, but masking it with a smile. "This gentleman wants to take your picture for Time-Life, and I thought you should be wearing your ribbons. Didn't your secretary relay my message?"

  "It must have been garbled, sir," Lowell said.

  Williams stood up and came around the desk.

  "Miss. Thomas, Mr. Norton, this is Major Craig Lowell, the officer charged with the testing and development of the rocket armed helicopter."

  Mr. Norton was in his forties, a balding, pudgy, rumpled little man festooned with Nikon cameras. An enormous leather gadget bag was at his feet. Miss. Thomas was in her middle twenties. Her hair was blond and long, parted in the middle and hanging below her shoulders. A pair of sunglasses was stuck on top of her head. She wore a pleated, plaid woolen skirt and a soft woolen sweater that did not conceal her ample bosom.

  If I had not just spent a rather exhausting night with Jane Cassidy trying to set a world's screwing record, followed by a pre breakfast encore, I would certainly contemplate jumping your bones, Miss. Thomas.

  "Pleased to meetcha, Major," Norton said, offering an indifferent hand.

  Miss. Thomas offered her limp fingers and a dazzling smile.

  "How are you?" she said.

  Lowell thought he had Miss. Thomas pegged the moment he'd seen the Peck & Peck sweater and skirt, the single string of real pearls, and the loafers. Confirmation came when she spoke. He smiled, remembering Sandy Felter's remark about people like Miss. Thomas: "Is that inbred, genetic, or do they send them to school to learn how to talk with their jaws locked and through their noses?"

  Lowell had a lifelong experience with Miss. Thomas types, and it had taught him to keep his distance from them.

  "I want you to give Mr. Norton and Miss. Thomas as much of your time as necessary, Lowell," Bill Roberts ordered. "Show them everything about our rocket-armed helicopter that's not classified. If they'd like, take them for a ride." "Colonel," Lowell said, "the entire weapons system is classified secret. What should I show them?"

  "Then everything but the weapons system, Roberts said, atinoyed.

  "But we came to see the weapons system," Miss. Thomas said, winningly.

  "As absurd as it might seem to you," Lowell said, flashing her a dazzling smile, "we have to go on the premise that you're Russian spies." She was not amused. And there was steel beneath the Peck & Peck smile.

  "We're here with the blessing of the Chief of Information," she said.

  "And it was clearly understood by him why we were coming all the way down here. To see the weapons system on your whirlybirds."

  "I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Thomas," Lowell said.

  "That's

  "Miss.," " she said.

  "Right," Lowell said. "But my hands are tied. You'll have to take that up with Colonel Roberts." Lowell was amused at Roberts's predicament. Roberts had apparently been so dazzled by the appearance of Time-Life and/or by the dazzling smile, long legs, and intriguing bosom of Miss. Thomas that he had forgotten that the project was mostly classified.

  Now that it had been brought to his attention, he made up his mind quickly.

  "What I'll do, Miss. Thomas, is get on the telephone and see how much of the weapons system can be declassified. I mean, after all, it's been on television. And failing that, I'll be more than happy to provide Time-Life with photographs which have been cleared for publication." "You mean," she said, bitchily, "with the sexy parts airbrushed out?"

  Roberts laughed uncomfortably.

  "Lowell, why don't you take my car and driver and give these people a tour of the place? Say for an hour? Until I get some answers from Washington." "My pleasure, sir," Lowell said.

  "I would hate to think I'm being given the runaround, Colonel," Miss. Thomas said, unpleasantly.

  She walked out of the room, past Lowell.

  She had a nice, springy, feminine walk, and she smelled of something both very appropriate and very expensive.

  Smith, he decided. Not Vassar. Smith. And then the graduate school of journalism at Columbia. And then journalism. Journalism was chic, Time-Life even more chic, a perfect place

 
; Tue Cowneis 259 to meet someone of one's own background, someone to marry before establishing a home in Mamaroneck, or Princeton, or Darien, there to breed another generation of teeth-clenchers to be dispatched to Country Day School, Miss. Porter's, St. Mark's, and then Harvard, Smith, Yale, and Vassar.