The second time, he found the hole without much trouble, and she moved against him even more frenziedly, and she didn’t make those yelping noises. And the second time, he told himself, what the fuck, I’ve already caught it. He didn’t jump off her and go and wash his privates.
She said, when she had stopped breathing hard, “What is your name?”
“Craig,” he said.
“I am Ilse,” she said. “Ilse Berg.”
When she had gone to the Civilian Personnel (Indigent Personnel) Office of the U.S. Constabulary to seek a job as a translator, the American had asked her her name, and she had told him Greiffenberg. He had asked her to spell it, and he couldn’t understand her pronunciation, so finally he said, “Fuck it. From now on, fraulein, your name is Berg.”
He wrote Berg down on her application, and she was afraid to correct him. Maybe he would, as he said, let her know in a month or two about a job. It didn’t matter what her name was anymore.
She put out her hand to Craig, in the European manner, and shook his. She told herself that she had really been lucky. She had found an Ami who was kind and gentle. He was a nice person, she thought, and she thought that he acted a lot younger than he really was. He acted as if he was no more than eighteen or nineteen, and he must be older than that, for he was an officer. She promised herself that for as long as he kept her, she would do her best to live up to her end of the bargain.
It was preposterous, of course, to think that anything could come between them.
When he came back from the polo field that afternoon, she was waiting across the street from the Bayrischen Hof for him. When he stopped, she came gaily tripping across the street and got in the jeep and directed him three miles out of Bad Nauheim to a farm. She had rented a tiny two-room apartment. There was a tiny table. Somewhere she had found a rose, and put it in a small vase. There was a bed. She showed it to him proudly, and then turned. They looked at each other for a moment, and then, without a word, they started taking off their clothes.
(Five)
Baden-Baden
Zone Francaise de L’Armée de L’Occupation d’Allemagne
4 July 1946
The polo field was in sight of the Grand Hotel, and it was one of the oldest polo fields on the Continent, built to accommodate the English aristocracy whom had brought the game from India and then taken it with them to the Continent. It had been turned into a vegetable garden during the war, and the grass wasn’t anything like either General Waterford or General Paul-Marie Antoine Quillier, his French counterpart, remembered from before the war, but it was, Waterford realized, a much better field than the field at Bad Nauheim.
The French, of course, had tried to get them drunk the night before at a dinner in the hotel, and afterward at a bar; but Waterford had seen that coming, and the only one who had defied his edict to stay sober was young Lowell.
He had decided to forgive Lowell. For one thing, Lowell was young; and there really wasn’t much else for him to do with his elders around but drink. Primarily he was forgiving Lowell because the boy was playing better with what certainly must be a classic hangover than the others were playing in their physical prime.
They were five goals up on the French in the fourth chukker, when the French number three, with an offside neck shot, sent the ball toward the American goal. A good shot, twenty yards in the air, bouncing along the field for another ten yards and then picked up by the French number one, General Quillier, with an offside foreshot, which drove it another forty yards toward the American goal.
The players galloped past the spectators, past the band of the U.S. Constabulary in their chrome-plated helmets—its three trumpeters on their feet with instruments near their mouths—past the band of the Deuxième Division Mécanique of the French—with its bass drums diaped in leopard skins, its Algerian mountain goats with gilded horns—past the tents set up to serve lunch and champagne, past the limousines of the generals, the staff cars, the personal automobiles, toward the American goal, behind which sat the L-5 Stinsons.
The American number four, Fat Charley, galloped up behind General Quillier. Leaning forward, standing in his stirrups, he passed him, raised his mallet over his head and swung it in a wide arc, a beautiful backhand that stopped the bouncing ball and sent it shooting in the other direction.
The American number three, Lieutenant Lowell, spun around in his headlong charge, changed direction, and galloped at the bouncing willow ball. He raised his mallet, then swept it down in a vicious arc so swift the whistling sound of the mallet was audible over the clatter of the pounding hooves. He drove the ball toward the French goal.
There was a muted round of applause from the ladies and gentlemen.
The three trumpeters of the U.S. Constabulary band, their eyes on their general, sounded the charge.
The American number one, Major General Peterson K. Waterford, coming from across the field at a gallop, misjudged the speed of the bouncing ball. He almost overrode it, but saved his shot by making an offside tail stroke, his mallet coming from the far side of his mount under the tail, as he galloped past it. The ball was twenty yards ahead of him almost immediately, just time for him to raise his mallet for an offside foreshot. It was a clean blow. The ball went ahead of him in a straight line, hit the grass, rolled, stopped.
He raised his mallet again, urged his mount to go even faster. The trumpeters sounded the charge again. His mallet came down again in a swift arc. The crack of the maple head of his mallet on the willow ball was clear and crisp.
He watched the trajectory of the ball, then looked over his shoulder. In perfect position to back him up, in case he missed, was his number three, at a gallop, his mallet resting casually over his shoulder. He wasn’t going to miss the sonofabitch.
He raised his mallet, heard his trumpeters sound the charge again, then swung his mallet and connected. He looked up to see the ball heading straight for the unprotected goal. He spurred his pony into pursuit.
Major General Peterson K. Waterford appeared to have lost his stirrup. He fell forward against the neck of his mount, as if he had lost his balance. The pony, still at the gallop, went through the goalposts.
The bell rang. Good goal.
The general’s pony, at the last moment before running into the nearest of the Stinsons, veered to the right. General Peterson K. Waterford was unhorsed. He fell heavily to the ground, landing on his shoulder, skidding on his face.
His number three, Lieutenant Lowell, made what appeared to be an impatient shake of his hand, twisting his wrist free of the mallet loop. He reined in his galloping mount and was off the animal before it recovered from its abrupt stop. He ran the ten feet to General Waterford, knelt beside him, and rolled him over on his back. He saw that although General Waterford’s eyes were on him, they didn’t see him.
General Quillier was next to arrive, dismounting as quickly as had Lowell. He took one look at General Waterford’s eyes and crossed himself. Then some of the others came up, with Fat Charley nearly last. And finally, on foot, red-faced, puffing from the exertion, Captain Rudolph G. MacMillan.
QUARTIER GENERAL DE L’ARMEE DE L’OCCUPATION DE ALLEGMAGNE 4 JULY 1946
TO: HEADQUARTERS
UNITED STATES ARMY FORCES, EUROPE
FOLLOWING FROM BADEN-BADEN
MAJOR GENERAL PETERSON K. WATERFORD DIED SUDDENLY AT 1508 HOURS PRESUMABLY HEART ATTACK MORE FOLLOWS.
MACMILLAN, CAPT.
OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE
HQ USFET
WAR DEPT WASH ATTN CHIEF OF STAFF
INFO HQ U.S. CONSTABULARY
IN RECEIPT UNCONFIRMED REPORT SIGNED MACMILLAN CAPT THAT MAJOR GENERAL PETERSON K. WATERFORD DECEASED 1508 HOURS THIS DATE AT BADEN-BADEN.
CLAY, GENERAL
OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE
HQ USFET
WAR DEPT WASH ATTN CHIEF OF STAFF
INFO HQ U.S. CONSTABULARY
DEATH OF MAJOR GENERAL PETERSON K. WATERFORD CONFIRMED AS OF 1530 HOURS. GENERAL WATERFORD SUFFERED CORONA
RY FAILURE WHILE PLAYING POLO AT BADEN-BADEN. MRS. WATERFORD PRESENT. FURTHER DETAILS WILL BE FURNISHED AS AVAILABLE.
CLAY, GENERAL
(Six)
Bad Nauheim, Germany
4 July 1946
HEADQUARTERS
UNITED STATES CONSTABULARY
APO 109 US FORCES
GENERAL ORDERS 4 July 1946
NUMBER 66
The undersigned herewith assumes command of the United States Constabulary as of 1615 hours this date.
Richard M. Walls
Brigadier General, USA
General Walls had been known as “the Wall” when he had played football for the Academy because there had been few people ever able to push past him on the football field. He had weighed 220 pounds then. He was, twenty-five years later, ten pounds heavier. He was the Constab’s artillery commander, and upon official notification of the demise of the commanding general, he had acceded to temporary command by virtue of his date of rank.
He was at the headquarters airstrip when the first L-5 Stinson from Baden-Baden arrived. Captain MacMillan hauled himself out of the front seat of the little airplane, straightened his uniform, and marched over to the Chevrolet staff car. He saluted crisply.
General Walls did not smile when he returned MacMillan’s salute.
“All right, MacMillan,” he said. “Let’s have it.”
“The general seemed all right through the first three chukkers, sir,” MacMillan said. “In the last few moments of the fourth chukker, he appeared to have lost his balance, and then he fell off the horse. When I reached him, sir, he was dead.”
“Mrs. Waterford?”
“Mrs. Waterford was among the spectators, sir. As soon as possible, sir, I had the frogs TWX USFET.”
“Subject to Mrs. Waterford’s approval, of course, Captain, it is my intention to hold a memorial service for General Waterford at 1400 hours tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How is Mrs. Waterford bearing up?”
“Very well, sir. Fat Charley…Colonel Lunsford is with her. They were classmates, sir, as I’m sure the general knows.”
“I have spoken with General Clay,” General Walls said. “The Air Corps has made available a C-54 to take Mrs. Waterford to the States. And the general’s remains, if that is her wish.”
“I believe Mrs. Waterford wishes the general to be buried at West Point, sir,” MacMillan said.
“You’ve already asked, have you? You are an efficient sonofabitch, aren’t you, MacMillan?” General Walls said. “All right, Captain, here it is. As a token of my respect for General Waterford, and my personal regard for Mrs. Waterford, you may consider yourself in charge of all arrangements until the general’s remains leave the command.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“And then find yourself a new home, Captain,” the general said.
“Sir?”
“You hear well, Captain,” the general said. “General Waterford may have found you amusing, or useful, but I don’t.”
“Would the general care to be specific?” MacMillan, standing now at rigid attention, asked.
“The list of your outrages, MacMillan, is a long one. What comes to mind at the moment is that golf player you arranged to have commissioned. Shall I go on?”
“No, sir, that won’t be necessary.”
“I won’t have someone like you in any outfit I command. In my judgment, medal or no goddamned medal, you are unfit to wear an officer’s uniform. You are a scoundrel, MacMillan. A commissioned guardhouse lawyer. Is that clear enough for you?”
“Yes, sir, the general has made his point.”
VI
(One)
Drop Zone Carentan
Fort Bragg, N.C.
5 July 1946
Major Robert F. Bellmon, Assistant Branch Chief, Heavy Drop Loads Division of the Airborne Board, Fort Bragg, North Carolina, was regarded by his peers, and by the four bird colonels and sixteen lieutenant colonels senior to him, with suspicion and even contempt. He had been reduced to major in one of the first personnel cutbacks—“without prejudice”—but everyone knew that not all officers promoted beyond their age and length of service had been reduced in grade.
But even if he had just been caught in a rollback and was a good armor officer, what was such a good armor officer doing volunteering for airborne? Why would armor permit a good armor officer to go to Parachute School and then on to Ranger School? The answer was clear, and the proof was his assignment to the Airborne Board as the armor specialist.
There was nothing that anyone could put a finger on to prove their suspicions of Bellmon—he certainly did his work well enough—but two things about him were perfectly clear. There was nothing that airborne was planning to do that wouldn’t be known to Fort Knox immediately. He was armor’s spy in the airborne camp. That was perfectly clear. Airborne had their spies at Knox, too. That was the way the game was played. The second thing that was clear was that Bellmon was not, and would never be, one of them.
He went through the things that were expected of him: membership in the Airborne Association, wearing his parachutist’s wings when no other qualification badge adorned his uniform, and as sort of a symbolic gesture that he wasn’t really armor, having himself detailed to the General Staff Corps for the duration of his assignment to the Board.
They suspected, however, and they were correct, that he was laughing at them.
Major Bellmon thought a lot of things in the army were laughable. He had once gotten himself in trouble as a young captain by laughing out loud at the uniform General George Patton had designed for armor troops. He had once enraged one of the members of Eisenhower’s SHAEF staff by pronouncing Shayfe as Sheef, and then going onto explain that a sheef was something somebody who lisped put on when he wished to diddle somebody.
A photograph had been circulated among senior airborne officers. The commanding officer of the Parachute School at Fort Benning, as a courtesy to a field-grade officer, had sent a photographer aloft in the C-47 to chronicle Major Bellmon’s fifth (qualifying) jump. Instead of grim determination and great seriousness, the photographer had returned with a print of Major Bellmon going out the door holding his nose, his eyes tightly shut, his right hand over his head…a small boy jumping into deep water.
And he was amused now, although he kept his thoughts to himself. He was sitting in a jeep (another of his idiosyncracies was that he drove his own jeep; the assigned driver had to perch in the back seat) at Drop Zone Carentan. Other jeeps and trucks were gathered at the edge of the drop zone. There were a half dozen officers and twenty-five enlisted men. They all wore field jackets. The Airborne Board, like the Armor Board, the Artillery Board, and the Infantry Board, was a subordinate command of Army Ground Forces. The insignia of Army Ground Forces was a circle with three horizontal bands of color, blue for infantry, gold for armor, and red for artillery. But since all the personnel of the Airborne Board were airborne qualified, they sewed above this insignia a patch lettered Airborne. All this amused Major Bellmon.
A captain walked over to the jeep.
“The aircraft is airborne at Pope Field, Major,” he said.
“Thank you,” Bellmon said.
The test today was to drop, from a specially modified C-113 aircraft, an M24 light tank. The tank was firmly chained to a specially built platform, which in turn was chained to the floor of the C-113. When the aircraft appeared over the drop zone, the chains fastening the tank platform to the floor of the aircraft would be removed. A drogue parachute would be deployed from the rear of the airplane. When its canopy filled, it would pull the tank on its platform out of the rear of the aircraft. Then three enormous cargo parachutes would be deployed. They would, in theory, float the tank and its platform to the ground. On ground contact, the platform was designed to absorb shock by collapsing. The chains holding the tank to the platform would then be removed, and the tank driven off.
One of the weaknesses of a vertical envelopm
ent was that you couldn’t drop the necessary tanks, large-bore artillery, or engineer and other heavy equipment. This weakness was in the process of being rectified. Bellmon thought they had as much chance of solving the problem as they did of becoming ballet dancers.
Three minutes after the captain announced the aircraft was airborne, Bellmon got out of his jeep and walked to the drop zone. He saw that there were still and motion-picture cameras in place. And an ambulance. And even a three-man tank crew, to drive the tank away once it had landed.
He walked over to the tank crew. They came to attention.
“Stand at ease,” he said. “How are you?”
“Good morning, Major,” they chorused.
“What are you giving in the way of odds?” Bellmon asked.
“Not a fucking chance in hell, sir,” the tank commander said.
“Oh, ye of little faith!” Bellmon said.
The airplane, a twin-boom, squatish aircraft whose boxlike fuselage had given it the name “Flying Boxcar,” appeared in the distance. It approached and made a low-level pass. Someone set off a smoke grenade to indicate the direction and velocity of the wind. The aircraft made a low, slow turn and approached again, descending to a precise 2,000 feet altitude over the ground.
Bellmon raised his binoculars to his eyes and watched. The drogue chute came out the tail. Then the tank on its wooden platform. One by one, three huge cargo chutes filled with air and snapped open. The tank swung beneath them.
“Well, that much worked,” Major Bellmon said.
One of the three parachutes began to flutter, and then lost its hemispherical shape.
“Sonofabitch ripped,” one of the tank crewmen said. “I coulda told them that.”
A second parachute ripped. The tank, which had been suspended horizontally, now hung from only one chute and was heading for the earth vertically. The third chute failed.
There was absolute silence as the tank plummeted toward the ground, trailing three shredded parachutes. It landed on its rear with one loud crash, and then fell over, right side up.
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