“Thank you, sir. No, sir, they haven’t.”
“If the incredibly stupid behavior of those two clowns from CIC didn’t want to make you weep, if it wasn’t for the trooper with the .38 slug in his leg, this whole mess could be funny,” the general said.
“Sir, may the sergeant ask how Private Latier is?” MacMillan said.
“Very well. I checked on him right after I sent for you. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Well, we’ve finally got this mess straightened out,” the general said. MacMillan, still peering into space six inches over the general’s head, stiff as a board, said nothing.
“You don’t seem surprised,” the general said.
“Sir, the sergeant knew that it would be straightened out in good time.”
“You’re not curious what happened?”
“Sir, it doesn’t matter.”
“If you’re going to be an officer, MacMillan—” the general said, with a smile. “Correction: Now that you are an officer, you’re going to have to learn the difference between ‘at ease’ and ‘parade rest.’”
MacMillan’s hands, which had been crossed in the small of his back, palms open, fingers stiff and together, fell awkwardly to his side. He made an effort to stand less at attention. His eyes looked at the general, and then snapped back to where they had been directed, six inches over the general’s head.
“Ed,” the general said to his aide-de-camp, “would you ask the sergeant to get Lieutenant MacMillan and myself a cup of coffee? And under the circumstances, I think that perhaps we might like to have a little character in the coffee. Sit down, Lieutenant MacMillan. On the couch.”
MacMillan, half afraid this was some kind of incredibly detailed nightmare, walked stiffly to the general’s couch, and sat down. A tech sergeant, crisply uniformed, obviously the general’s sergeant, who just as obviously had been standing ready with the tray with the coffee pitcher and the cups and saucers and the Old Bartlesville 100-Proof Sour Mash Kentucky Bourbon, bent over the coffee table in front of the couch, lowered the tray, and winked at MacMillan.
“Perhaps the lieutenant,” the tech sergeant said, “would like his character straight-up.” He handed MacMillan a shot glass. Mac tossed it down. He felt the liquor burn his throat. This was no dream.
“As well as I have been able to piece this thing together, MacMillan,” the general said, walking to the couch and sitting down beside MacMillan, “on 20 September 1944, acting on the recommendation of your battalion commander, the commanding general of the 82nd Airborne Division directly commissioned you as a second lieutenant.”
“I don’t remember anything about that, General,” MacMillan said. “Colonel Vandervoort said I was in command, but I don’t remember nothing about a commission.”
“Obviously, you misunderstood your colonel,” the general said. “When were you captured?”
“On the twenty-first,” MacMillan said. He looked at the general with embarrassment, even shame in his eyes. “We were on the far side of the canal. We were supporting the 504th. We were out of bazooka ammo. We had one clip for the BAR. We were down to four guys, and two of them was bad wounded. General, there was more krauts than we had ammo!” He looked very close to tears.
The general snapped his fingers, then gestured “bring me” with his fingers. His aide-de-camp went to his desk, picked up a sheet of paper, and handed it to the general. The general put his glasses on. He began to read:
“Second Lieutenant Rudolph George MacMillan, 0-589866, then commanding reconnaissance platoon, 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division, then engaged against German forces in the area known as Groesbeek Heights, near Nijmegen, the Netherlands, suffered the loss of eighty percent of his command while leading them to effect a join-up with the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment.
“Despite his own wounds, Lieutenant MacMillan personally took over operation of a rocket launcher, and ignoring a murderous hail of small arms, mortar, and artillery fire, personally destroyed five German tanks. His action prevented the enemy from forcing a breech in the ranks of the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment, and consequently saved many American lives.
“Again ignoring his wounds, and without regard to his personal safety, Lieutenant MacMillan then personally carried two of his men through a murderous hail of enemy fire to medical facilities, during which activity he was again wounded. In order to make an attempt to save the lives of other members of his platoon, he returned a third time to his forward position.
“After expending his last rounds of rifle ammunition, and after having been wounded a fifth time, Lieutenant MacMillan was last seen advancing toward the enemy with a Thompson submachine gun, which he was firing with one hand.”
“That’s bullshit,” MacMillan said. Tears were running down his cheeks. The tech sergeant touched his shoulder and when MacMillan looked up, the tech sergeant handed him another shot glass. MacMillan tossed it down, shuddered, and suddenly leaned forward and held his face in his hands.
“Why is it bullshit?” the general asked, softly.
“Well, I wasn’t wounded, for one thing,” MacMillan said. “Not really shot, or bad hurt. Just some scratches when I got knocked down by concussion, and fell down. You know what I mean. And that last part, about ‘advancing toward the enemy with a Thompson.’ Shit! What I did when we ran out of ammo was lie in that fucking hole until the krauts came and rolled over us and then I put my hands up over my head.”
“I thought that paragraph was a bit colorful,” the general said, dryly. He picked up the paper and resumed reading.
“Lieutenant MacMillan’s actions were above and beyond the call of duty. His heroism, valor, and leadership characteristics are in the finest traditions of the United States Army and reflect great credit upon him and the military service. Entered the military service from Pennsylvania.”
“Sir, can I ask, what is that you’re reading, anyway?” MacMillan asked.
“This is what the military aide to the President of the United States is going to read aloud when the President hangs the Medal of Honor around your neck, Lieutenant MacMillan.”
MacMillan looked at him in utter disbelief.
“There was some doubt as to whether you had survived the action,” the general went on. “So award of the medal was held in abeyance until we should get some positive information about you. Or get you back. The records of Technical Sergeant MacMillan were closed. The records of Lieutenant MacMillan were flagged, so that if you should show up in one piece, we could roll out the red carpet for you. That’s why there was no record of you when the military attaché sent his TWX.”
MacMillan had two stiff drinks in him. He was relaxing somewhat.
“Well,” he said. “Second Lieutenant MacMillan. What do you know about that?”
“First Lieutenant,” the general corrected him. “Automatic promotion after six months.”
“What happens now?” MacMillan asked.
“Well, either Tuesday or Wednesday, we’ll fly you to Washington. We’ll have your wife meet you there, of course. And on Thursday, you’ll go to the White House. There are six people in the ceremony, as I understand it.”
“What happens today?” MacMillan asked. He added, “Sir?” It was obvious that the announcement had, indeed, got to him. He had forgotten his military courtesy.
“It’s Friday afternoon, I’m afraid,” the general said. “There’s not much that can be done. Get you moved into a BOQ, of course. Run you by the officer’s sales store to be fitted for pinks and greens. They expect you at the hospital at 0730 tomorrow morning. Complete physical. Relax, MacMillan. For the next week or so, people will be doing things for you. And after Washington, you’re entitled to a thirty-day liberation leave…not charged as leave, by the way. They’ve taken over the Greenbrier Hotel for that. Ever heard of the Greenbrier?”
“No, sir, I haven’t,” MacMillan said. “When do I get to see my wife?”
&
nbsp; “I’m sure Second Army is already working on that. We’ll have her on hand when you get off the plane in Washington. Don’t you worry about that.”
“I want to see her as soon as I can,” MacMillan said. “Tonight.”
“I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question, Lieutenant MacMillan,” the general said, and Mac recognized the tone of voice. There would be no argument.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
The general looked at his watch.
“Well, MacMillan,” he said. “If you want to get yourself fitted, you’re going to have to run along.”
MacMillan stood up and popped to attention. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Thank you, sir.”
The general put out his hand. “It’s been an honor to meet you, Lieutenant,” he said. “Oh, there’s one more thing I think I should tell you. I’m putting you in for the DSC for your escape.”
MacMillan didn’t say anything.
“And I’m sure, Lieutenant, that nothing more will be heard about the little administrative SNAFU, will there?” the general said. “It was just one of those things, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” MacMillan said. “That’s all it was.”
The general’s aide-de-camp took MacMillan in the general’s Ford staff car to the officer’s sales store, where he was measured for uniforms. The enlisted man’s uniform he was wearing was, at the aide-de-camp’s insistence, pressed on the spot. It occurred to MacMillan that he could probably get out of turning the ODs in, and he would then be ahead one uniform.
There was a small problem about insignia. It could be cleared up in the morning, the aide-de-camp said, or by Monday at the latest. But for the time being, MacMillan would have to do without the embroidered insignia of the 82nd Airborne Division; without his Expert Combat Infantry Badge; without his parachutists wings; without, in fact, everything except the silver bars of a lieutenant and the crossed rifles of infantry.
“It’ll be enough, Mac,” the aide-de-camp said, “to get you into the officer’s club to eat. And first thing in the morning, we’ll turn you over to a team from PIO, who’ll take care of everything while you’re being briefed for the White House affair, and the press conference.”
The aide-de-camp got him settled into the bachelor officer’s quarters, and then left him, after pointing out the officer’s mess, across the parade field.
There was a telephone in the BOQ and Mac got on it, and after several telephone calls learned that the guys, “except the one got hisself shot” had already been processed and were gone on liberation leave. A nurse in the hospital told him that the man who was shot on the C-54 could not be called to the telephone; his family had just arrived to greet him.
First Lieutenant Rudy G. MacMillan saw a small sign on the wall behind the telephone: OFF-POST TAXI 4550.
The dumb bastards, he thought, were convinced that he would be a good boy and stay sober and on the post because they hadn’t paid him. He had the money, nearly a thousand dollars, that the captain of the MV Jose Harrez had given him at Port Said. He had seen no reason to share it with the others. For one thing, he knew they would be paid the moment they got to the States. For another, if it hadn’t been for him, they would still be in Poland someplace.
He put his finger in the telephone and dialed a four, two fives, and a zero.
(Eight)
Boston, Mass.
22 April 1945
“Please deposit $2.35, sir.”
Nine quarters bonged and a dime binged into the slots. He heard the number start to ring. On the third ring, somebody picked it up.
“Hello?”
His eyes watered and his throat tightened so much it hurt.
“Long distance is calling Mrs. Roxanne MacMillan.”
“This is Mrs. MacMillan.”
“Go ahead, sir.”
Nine quarters and a dime dropped into Massachusetts Bell’s coin box with a crash.
“Roah,” MacMillan said. Goddamnit, he couldn’t talk.
“Hello?”
“Roxy?”
“Hello?”
“Roxy, this is Mac.”
“Mac?” There was disbelief in her voice.
“Honey, how are you?”
“Oh, Mac! Oh, shit, I thought you were dead! Oh, Mac!”
“Why did you think I was dead?”
“The army’s been calling up here and at work, and they’re supposed to call about now and come over. Mac, I thought they were going to tell me you were dead!”
“I’m all right, honey,” Mac said. “I’m all right.”
“Honey, where are you?”
“In a railroad station in Boston.”
“What are you doing there? When can you come home?”
“Can you borrow your brother’s car? Can you come to New York?”
“Yeah, I’m sure I can. Tommy’s home. He’ll drive me.”
“I don’t want him to drive you. I want you to come by yourself.”
“Where in New York, Mac?”
Christ, he hadn’t thought about that.
“Where should I come, Mac?”
“You remember that hotel where we stayed when I was at Camp Kilmer? The Dixie?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’ll meet you there, Roxy,” Mac said.
“What about the people from the army?”
“Take off right now, honey, before they get there.”
“Mac, are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Just come, will you, Roxy, for Christ’s sake?”
(Nine)
New York City, New York
24 April 1945
The desk clerk of the Dixie Hotel told the soldier that he was sorry, but they were all full up.
The soldier reached in the chest pocket of his Ike jacket and came out with a folded wad of money. He peeled off a twenty dollar bill, and then another.
“Like I said,” the soldier said. “I’d like a double room, with a double bed, for two nights.” He held the two twenty dollar bills up in front of him.
“Well, I…”
“You better take it,” the soldier said. “That’s all I’m going to put up.”
“I think we just may have a cancellation, sir,” the desk clerk said, and snatched the forty dollars.
While the soldier signed the registry card, the desk clerk looked around for the woman. He saw no one.
He examined the card, more than a little surprised that Lieutenant and Mrs. Smith had not just registered. The card read “1/Lt and Mrs. R. G. MacMillan, Mauch Chuck, Penna.”
“Where’s the bar?” Lieutenant MacMillan asked.
“Right across the lobby, sir. Your luggage, sir?”
“No luggage,” MacMillan said.
“Then I’ll have to have payment in advance, sir,” the desk clerk said.
The soldier produced the wad of money again and paid for two days in advance. Then he walked across the lobby and went into the cocktail lounge.
An hour later, he reappeared at the desk and asked for his key. His face was liquor flushed, and there was a woman hanging tightly on his arm. She was a redhead, and her breasts overfilled the dress, straining the buttons.
“You got my key, Mac?” the soldier asked.
“Yes, sir. Eleven-seventeen. I’ll get you a bellman.”
“I don’t need no bellman, just give me the goddamn key.”
“Yes, sir.”
The desk clerk watched them get on the elevator. As soon as they turned around, before the operator could close the door, the soldier dropped his hand to the redhead’s buttock and gave it a little squeeze.
“Behave yourself, for Christ’s sake,” the redhead said.
And then the elevator door closed and took Lieutenant and Mrs. MacMillan to their floor.
(Ten)
Washington, D.C.
28 April 1945
“I understand, Lieutenant,” the gray-haired man in the glasses said to him, “unofficially, of course, that there was some doubt that you were going
to find the time to come here today.”
First Lieutenant MacMillan, his wife Roxanne hanging tightly on to his arm, could not form a reply.
“One of the things I learned when I was a battery commander, Lieutenant, was there was AWOL, and then there was AWOL. Are they giving you any trouble?”
“They were pretty mad, sir,” Lieutenant MacMillan said.
“If they give you any real trouble, you let me know,” the man in the glasses said. He lifted the medal suspended around MacMillan’s neck on a starred blue ribbon. “That ought to be worth a weekend pass, anyhow. If they give you any real trouble, tell them the Commander in Chief told you that.”
III
(One)
Kilometer 835, Frankfurt-Kassel Autobahn
Near Bad Nauheim, Germany
6 April 1945
A BMW sidecar motorcycle bounced up the median of the autobahn. It was driven by a huge black American T/4, an MP brassard on his arm. A three-by-six-foot American flag was just barely flapping from an antenna rigged as a flagpole, and a small passenger was hanging onto the lip of the sidecar cockpit.
Endless ranks of gray-uniformed prisoners marched listlessly down the median in the opposite direction. There were four tightly packed columns of American vehicles on the autobahn itself, on both sides of the median. On the left, moving northward in what were customarily the southbound lanes, was a slow-moving armored column and a second slightly faster-moving line of General Motors six-by-six trucks. The northbound lanes were jammed with a stopped double column of trucks.
The BMW motorcycle came to a bridge over a deep gorge. Its center span was blown and lay in a pile of crumbled concrete and steel two hundred feet below. The combat engineers had laid a one-lane Bailey Bridge over the gap, and a trio of military policemen directed traffic over it. Six tanks were waved across with impatient gestures, then six of the trucks from the columns on the left. The columns on the right were going to have to wait, and they had the message. Their drivers were sitting on the hoods of the GMCs. The line of prisoners wended its way down the far bank of the gorge and then up the near side.
The BMW with the sidecar had a siren, and the passenger shouted for the motorcycle driver to sound it as they approached the MPs. One of the MPs heard it, looked, stepped in front of it, and raised his hand. The passenger of the motorcycle waved his hand violently, imperiously, motioning the MP aside.
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