"The flags never came off?" "That seems to be the situation," she said.
"I find it hard to believe," the DCSPERS said. "He just slipped through the cracks, huh?"
"You could put it that way, I suppose," she said, icily.
"Well," he said, "let's see what we can do to make things right with this officer. When does the next promotion board meet?"
"Next month."
"Then he should head the list," the DCSPERS said. "I was afraid that it wasn't until next year."
"You really think that promoting this officer, say in nine months, will make things right?"
"It would open a large can of worms to do anything else," the DCSPERS said. "Are you suggesting that we do that?"
I am suggesting to you that you seek permission from the Chief of Staff and SECDEF to convene a promotion board immediately, to consider the promotion of this officer, who because of our error was not considered by previous promotion boards."
"That's going to make us look rather sloppy, isn't it?"
"I am prepared to make that recommendation in writing," Mrs. Thomas said.
"And if I turned the recommendation down?"
"I don't really know what I would do in that circumstance, General," she said. "But I would suggest that now that our error has been uncovered, questions are liable to be asked when this officer's name, as it must be, is submitted for consideration by the next major's board. Someone is certain to ask why this officer's name was not previously submitted."
"Can we go off the record, Dorothy?" the DCSPERS asked.
"Certainly."
"Just between us, Dorothy, would you be so upset if the officer in question were not what he is?"
He knew the moment he saw the look on her face that he had made a mistake. First there was genuine confusion, then annoyance and anger.
She stood up and went to his desk and picked up the file. She saw the photograph of Captain Philip Sheridan Parker IV. "Nigger, isn't he?" she asked, bitterly. She looked at him witheringly.
He knew she had not known.
He buzzed for his secretary.
"Yes, sir?" his secretary asked, as she entered the room with her stenographer's notebook.
"Prepare a DF for SEC ARMY via the Chief of Staff, stating that without objection it is my intention to immediately convene a promotion board to consider Captain P. 5. Parker IV. Say that through inexcusable error, for which I hold myself responsible, Captain Parker's name has not been previously submitted for consideration, and that in my opimon a grave injustice has been done to him." (A DF, or distribution form, is a letter-sized Department of Defense form used for internal communication.)
"Yes, sir."
The DCSPERS dismissed his secretary with a nod of his head.
"I apologize, Dorothy," he said.
She walked out of his office without response. xv
(One) Fort Rucker, Alabama 1705 Hours, 12 April 1959
"Laird, Army Two Two One, turning on final," Craig Lowell said to the microphone he held in front of his face.
He hung the microphone hi its hook, lined the Cessna L-19 up with runway 28, and put it on the ground. It had been a very long haul in the single-engine, high-wing, two-seater observation airplane from the Lexington (Ky.) Signal Depot. The L-19 was not designed for cross-country flight. The trip had taken him more than twice as long as it would have in his Aero Commander, and the L-19's seats were far less comfortable than the padded leather seats in the Aero Commander.
But he'd had a fuel-pump problem in the left engine of the Commander, and he had had to go to the Signal Depot. Because there had been an inexplicable (and he had learned, nexcusable) delay in the delivery of a van-mounted avionic naintenance facility to Colonel Tom Warner's 3087th Aviation Company (Armed Helicopter) at Fort Knox, it had been necessary for him to go to Lexington to kick a little lead out of dead asses. But with the Aero Commander down, it was either the L-19 or a day up and a day back on commercial airlines. No faster aircraft were available to him from the Board fleet.
He taxied the little airplane to the end of the parked aircraft line, turned it into line, and shut it down. He got stiffly out and leaned against the fuselage as he filled out the forms and handed them to a waiting sergeant.
"Long flight, Major?" the sergeant said, sympathetically. "My ass has been asleep for two hours," Lowell said, smiled, and walked toward the parking lot.
He glanced toward Hangar No. 4, and saw Jane Cassidy walking to the parking lot. She raised her hand in a greeting that was also a signal for him to wait for her.
He unlocked the Mercedes, and got in and waited for her.
"Hi," he said, when she walked up to the car. She handed him a telephone message form. "Major Lowell," it read, "if you get back before 8:00 P. M., please call me at home. Jane." He smiled at her, then mimicked looking at his watch and picking up a telephone call.
"I have to see you," she said, very seriously.
"Here I am," he said, trying to keep it light. "Not here," she said.
"We have to talk."
"Oh?"
"Meet me at the beach place at eight," she said. "Can you?"
The beach place was in Panama City, which was an hour and a half's drive. The thought of the drive itself would have been displeasing, even if it hadn't been to the place where he had bedded Jane.
"C8n't we talk here?" he asked. "Or go get a cup of coffee in the snack bar?" "No," she said, tinnly. "I'm sorry, but I have to talk to you."
"Something's wrong?"
"Of course something's wrong," she said. "And I don't want to talk about it in a parking lot or a snack bar." "OK," he said, forcing a smile. "Eight o'clock." "Thank you, Craig," she said, and then she walked away toward her Buick station wagon.
He went to his office and spent a little more than an hour trying to work down the mountain of paper on his desk, and then he got in the Mercedes and started toward Panama City.
He had just crossed the Alabama-Florida line when he suddenly understood what was up, what was bothering Jane.
He cursed himself for not thinking of it instantly. He should have known that ending that relationship had gone entirely too easily to be real.
A couple weeks before, Tom Cassidy had called him at the office shortly after Cynthia had gone back to New York.
"It's my husband," Jane had said, confused and uncomfortable, "and he wants to talk to you."
It turned out that Torn had just come in from Kansas City and had brought with him some of the most beautifully marbled steaks he had ever seen. He wanted Craig Lowell to come to supper and would take no excuse short of nuclear war for his not coming. He was grateful, Tom had said, for all Lowell had done for Jane.
There had been no way to get out of going. But it had gone well, incredibly well. Or so, in his innocence, he had thought at the time.
In response to Tom Cassidy's question, "Well, what have you been up to lately?" Lowell had replied, looking right at Jane, "As a matter of fact, I've been falling in love."
Her smile had vanished for a moment, and then returned as he went on.
"It turned out that the Time-Life reporter who was here is the sister of a friend of my cousin Porter Craig's. I met her in New York, almost by coincidence, and, well, one thing led to another." "Well," Tom Cassidy had said, enthusiastically, "good for you!"
"I'm happy for you, Craig," Jane Cassidy had said. "Tell us all about her."
He had, he thought, come out of that one smelling like roses and mildly astonished at how skilled a hypocrite he could be when the occasion demanded.
Now he knew he had been a fool.
He banged his fist, hard, against the horn of the Mercedes.
"Jesus Christ, she's pregnant!" he said, aloud.
That was the only possible explanation. She had to "talk" to him. Of course, "something is wrong." What the hell else could it be?
The question was what to do about it?
"For Christ's sake," he said aloud again as he approached th
e beach house, his headlights catchiiig the reflection of the Buick's tail lights, "why the hell didn't she take care of herself?"
When he went in the house, she was standing at the bamboo bar.
"Right on time," she said. "Thank you. Scotch?" "Please," he said.
She had changed clothing since he'd seen her in the parking lot. She was now wearing a skirt and sweater. And, he noticed, nothing under the sweater.
She handed him the drink.
"Thank you," he said.
She tapped rims with him.
"I've missed you," she said.
"I've missed you, too," he said.
You are a sonofabitch. Lowell. You would like to jump her bones, Cynthia or no Cynthia. Then he pardoned himself. You wouldn't do it, of course. Thinking about it is not the same thing as doing it. That was just a perfectly normal reaction to a woman walking about with her boobs unrestrained under a sweater.
"Then why have you been avoiding me?" Jane Cassidy asked.
"Have I been avoiding you?" he asked, aware that it was an inane answer.
"You know very well you have," she accused.
"If I have," he said, aware he was making no sense, because he didn't know what was going on, "it's been unintentional."
"Huh!" she snorted.
He decided to get the conversation to the point.
"How long have you known?" he asked, gently.
"How long have I known what? That you've been avoiding me?"
"That you're pregnant," Lowell said.
"Pregnant? You think I'm pregnant? What gave you that idea?"
"You're not pregnant?"
"Of course I'm not pregnant." "Thank God!" he said. Elated, he drained his drink and walked around her to the bamboo bar and fixed himself another.
"You can't do this to me, Craig," she said to his back. "It's not fair!" Now what the hell?
"I don't understand what you mean," he said.
"You just can't drop me where I am," she said. "You got me into this, and you're just not going to abandon me until I get things figured out."
"I got you into what?" he asked, turning to face her. "Facing my sexuality," she said, and he could tell by her face that she was perfectly serious. He wasn't sure what she meant, but whatever it was, she was dead serious.
"Oh," he said.
"Don't act as if you don't understand what I'm talking about," she snapped.
"To tell you the truth, Jane," Lowell said, "I don't."
"Before I started this affair with you, I didn't have any problems in that regard," she said. "Or rather, I had them, but I didn't know it."
He nodded his head, as if agreeing with her. He still didn't know what she was talking about. "if1 have to spell it out for you," she said, nastily, "I never really came until you."
"Jane!"
"I didn't miss it, because I didn't know what it was," she said. "But now I do."
"If I taught you something, Jane," Lowell said, carefully, "that's all to the good." "You taught me something all right," she said. "But why don't we do the smart thing, and quit while we're ahead?"
"
"Damn you!" she said.
"You selfish bastard!"
"Look," he said, "we had a wonderful time. We didn't get caught. If I taught you something, that's all to the good. Your husband is a nice guy." "Yes, he is," she said. "You just don't understand, do you?" "No," he said, "I don't."
She colored and looked away.
"If I... took Tom in my mouth... or the other way around, if I asked him to do that to me... my God, he'd leave me."
"I think you would probably make him the happiest man in the world," Lowell said. "He would think I'm depraved," she said. "No, believe me, he wouldn't," Lowell said. I don't believe that; he just might. "Yes, he would!" she said, in almost a wail. "You could teach him," Lowell said. "If you wanted to."
"I'm going to try," she said.
"Good," he said.
"And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?" she snapped. "For Christ's sake, Jane. I'm in love with somebody. I think I'm going to marry her."
"Huh," she snorted. "I'm married. What has that got to do with this?"
"If I have be crude, Jane, I don't think I could get it up with you," Lowell said. "Not anymore."
"Because you're in love?" she asked.
"Yes, of course," he said.
"You taught me different," she said, her voice low. "You taught me that fucking has nothing to do with love."
" 1 didn't teach you that, because it's not true," Lowell said.
"Until I can straighten my life out and I will you're not just going to drop me," she said. "You got me into this, and you're going to stick with me. I need sex, and I'm going to get it, and I'm not going to risk a scandal by getting it from somebody else."
"I understand what you're saying, Jane," Lowell said, uncomfortably.
"But it just wouldn't work. I don't think I would be able to."
She looked at him. Then she crossed her arms in front of her, putting her hands on the hem of her sweater. Then she pulled it over her head.
"You'll think of some way to help me," she said.
He felt himself stimng.
It's absolutely true, he thought, mildly surprised. The sun always comes up in the morning, and a stiff prick has no conscience.
(Two) Broadlawns Glen Cove, Long Island, New York 1845 Hours, 1 May 1959
"Where the hell have you been?" Cynthia Thomas asked Craig Lowell as he came into the foyer of the house. "You were expected at half past three!" "I got hung up in Boonton, New Jersey," he said. "Sorry." He kissed her lightly, even chastely, but managed to get a little squeeze of her tail.
"Boonton, New Jersey?" she asked. He nodded. "What's in Boonton?" "ARC," he said.
"All right, I'll bite," she said. "What's ARC?"
"It's Craig's favorite charity," Porter Craig said, walking up and offering his hand. "The Aircraft Radio Corporation."
"Both of my ADFs quit working," Lowell said. "I called up and they said they would fix them right away, if I brought them to the plant."
"How did you get here?" Porter Craig asked. "They loaned me a car," Lowell said. "They should have given you one," Porter said. "As much business as you give them."
"How did lunch go?"
"I've heard of brides being left at the church," Cynthia said. "But never before at a garden party where the engagement was to be announced." "How did the garden party go?" Lowell asked. "Has everybody gone, I hope?" "You bastard," Cynthia said, but she smiled.
"I shouldn't even be here," he said. "Technically, I'm
A. W.O. L.." "I hope they catch you," she said. "Maybe they'll throw you out of the army." She said it jokingly, but she was serious. So long as he was in the army, she would not have a husband who could ever be where she wanted him to be. The ultimate solution to that problem would be to get Major Craig W. Lowell out of uniform.
"Everybody's down at the boathouse," Porter said. "It's beautiful there, so I made them move the buffet out."
"Let me get a little liquid courage, and then I'll go face them," Lowell said. "God knows, I can use something to eat."
"I had them set up a bar out there, too," Porter Craig said. "You can have a drink there."
"I'll have a drink here," Lowell said. He put his arms around Cynthia's shoulders and led her into the bar. A maid and a barman were cleaning up the room. He didn't recognize either of them and decided they were working for the caterer. Broadlawns was well staffed, but there were not enough servants to handle a garden party for forty without help.
"Put a little scotch in a large glass, please, and fill it with soda," Lowell ordered. "No ice."
"I believe the other guests have gone to the boathouse, sir," the barman said.
"I didn't ask for information," Lowell said, somewhat nastily. "I asked for a drink."
"This bar has been closed, sir," the barman said.
"Not as long as I own this house it hasn't," Lowell said sharply. He
walked behind the the bar and picked up a bottle of scotch and a soda water siphon. The barman shrugged at the bad manners of the rich and handed him a glass.
"You do insist on your way, don't you?" Cynthia said. "People are waiting to see you."
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