The Generals

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Let’s go have a look, Colonel,” General Lemper said.

  “Colonel Lowell has been loading tanks with drag lines from the Engineer Light Equipment Company,” Colonel Sapphrey said to his friend Colonel Ambler.

  “I didn’t think they’d handle that much weight,” Colonel Ambler said.

  “They’re not supposed to,” General Lemper said, as he pushed open the door.

  He found Lowell four buildings away. The group arrived just as, with a sharp crack, a hydraulic line on a large yellow warehouse forklift burst, spraying purple hydraulic fluid into the air.

  At the moment the line burst, the lift’s forks were eight feet in the air, suspending a six-by-six over a flat car. When the lines failed, the six-by-six dropped like a stone onto the flatcar, a vertical drop of about five feet. It bounced wildly on its springs.

  “Aw, shit!” the corporal driving the forklift said bitterly, wiping hydraulic fluid from his face. “Another one!”

  General Lemper wondered why the truck had been raised so high in the first place. Then he saw why. There was a line of six-by-sixes on the rail-car loading platform of one of the QM warehouses. A ramp had been built for them out of railroad ties. The forklifts were taking the trucks down from the loading platform, rather than up from the ground. The greatest strain on the hydraulic hoses came when the loaded forks were raised. By taking the trucks down from the loading platform, the forks had to be raised only a foot or so in order to clear the wheels. They would have had to be raised to five feet if the trucks had been picked up from the ground.

  The forklift driver backed the lift away from the flatcar. There was a screeching noise as the forks dragged across the flatcar; and then when the tips cleared the flatcar, the forks crashed to the ground.

  Colonel Ambler looked at General Lemper as if pleasantly anticipating an angry order to cease and desist.

  General Lemper watched the forklift with the ruptured lines back around the corner of the building, dragging the forks along the ground. Lemper followed it.

  A repair operation had been set up. Mechanics drenched with hydraulic fluid were replacing ruptured hydraulic hoses. Other mechanics were changing tires using one now-tireless forklift as a jack.

  Lowell was overseeing this operation, his hands on his hips. As General Lemper walked over to him, he saw dark spots on both his tunic and trouser legs. It was not a criticism of his appearance. The spots had obviously been caused by hydraulic fluid. Since the stuff didn’t come out, Lieutenant Colonel Lowell’s very expensive, tailor-made uniform was ruined. And so, Lemper saw, were his boots.

  “What are you going to do, Colonel, when you run out of forklifts you can cannibalize?”

  Lowell turned around and saluted crisply.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said, and then answered the question: “I sent a sergeant on a scrounging mission, sir. He seemed quite confident of success.”

  Lemper introduced the officers with him. They eyed Lowell suspiciously.

  “Colonel Sapphrey is concerned, Colonel, with reports that we have been dispatching empty boxcars,” Lemper said.

  “Yes, sir, I have been,” Lowell said. “One of the holdups was the switching around of cars; segregating, I suppose, is the word. It takes forever with trains.”

  “So I’ve learned,” Lemper said. “What was your solution to that? Just ignoring the cars you couldn’t use?”

  “Not exactly, sir,” Lowell said. “I had a talk with a couple of the railroad engineers and conductors. They came up with a solution to the problem, and I put it into action.”

  “And what was that solution, Colonel?” Colonel Sapphrey asked.

  “New Orleans has got a really efficient car distribution center, or so they told me. It’s supposed to be the fastest place in the country to make up trains. So I’ve sent them the job. They’re going to make up trains, some for New Orleans, some for Mobile, some for Miami, and then make up trains of the empty cars and send them back here.”

  “Just like that?” Colonel Sapphrey said. “You sent them the job? Just who do you think you are? And what makes you think they’ll oblige you once the trains you’ve ordered to New Orleans get there?”

  “Well, I sent Mr. Wojinski with one of the train men, some sort of a district supervisor, I didn’t get his exact title, but he understands our problem and is willing to help. Between them, I’m sure it’ll work.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” Colonel Sapphrey said.

  “When will these people get to New Orleans?” General Lemper asked. “When will you know for sure?”

  “I would have heard by now if there were problems, sir. They’ve been there six, probably seven hours. The first trains from here should be arriving in New Orleans about now.”

  “How did you get them to New Orleans?” Lemper asked.

  “They flew, sir.”

  Lemper was mildly annoyed. To keep his staff people from flying in all directions, he had ordered that no aircraft be dispatched out of the local area except with his express permission.

  “I’m surprised my aviation officer gave you an airplane,” he said.

  “He loaned me a couple of pilots, sir,” Lowell said. “They went in my airplane.”

  “You have an airplane assigned to you?” Lemper asked.

  “No, sir, I meant my airplane. I own one.”

  “How much permanent damage are you doing to these forklifts?” Lemper asked.

  “They’re pretty tough, sir,” Lowell said. “I don’t think very much.”

  “In my judgment,” Colonel Ambler said, “after the abuse to which they are being subjected, they’ll require complete depot-level overhaul.”

  “I would have to defer to your judgment, Colonel,” Lowell said, politely.

  “Gentlemen,” General Lemper said, “I would suggest that Colonel Lowell has more important things to do than chat with us.” Then he gave in to the impulse: “Carry on, Colonel.”

  “Right you are, sir,” Lowell said, with just a hint of a phony English accent.

  General Lemper quickly turned, so the others would not see his smile.

  When he got back to his office, he called Major General Paul T. Jiggs, J-3, Joint Assault Force, at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida.

  “Stu, Paul,” he said when Jiggs came on the line. “Got a minute to chat?”

  “In other words, you have a few comments vis-à-vis Craig Lowell that you would rather not make official? How mad are you, Stu?”

  “Mad isn’t the word. Embarrassed.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “The Transportation Corps is mad; the Quartermaster Corps is mad; and I suspect if I talked to the Engineer, he would be mad. But I’m embarrassed. Lowell has got us off the dime. That shouldn’t have been necessary.”

  Paul Jiggs and Stu Lemper were a year apart at the Point, Jiggs having graduated a year earlier. They had been friends for a long time.

  “As long as you’re off the dime, that’s all that counts,” Jiggs said. There was more than a hint of criticism in the sentence, Lemper thought.

  “Yes, it is,” Lemper said. “I would hate to see this affect my taking the division to Cuba, Paul.”

  “That hasn’t come up,” Jiggs said. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “You have to send somebody to help me do what I should have been able to do myself, and I worry.”

  “What you saw is what you got. I thought Lowell could help. If he has, fine. That’s all there is to it.”

  “He work for you? I saw the Aviation Center patch.”

  “He’s assigned to the Aviation Board.”

  “Can I take him with me? Or have you got something else for him to do?”

  “You think he would be useful?” Jiggs asked, and then went on without waiting for a reply: “If you want him, Stu, he’s yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Just what he’s doing now,” Lemper said.

>   There was a pause, and then Paul Jiggs said: “Stu, if you should come to need a battalion commander, or, for that matter, a combat command commander, Lowell is one hell of a combat commander.”

  “So I understand,” General Lemper said. “You had the 73rd Tank.”

  “It was his show, and he really did it right. He was twenty-four.”

  “I played Task Force Lowell on the sand tables at Leavenworth,” Lemper said. “How did somebody with that behind him wind up driving an airplane?”

  “It’s a long and sad story,” Jiggs said. “He can fuck up spectacularly in a moment’s time. Not when it counts—don’t misunderstand me—but when the mongrels nipping at his heels can get at him. I’ve often thought Craig should be kept in a deep freeze, and thawed only when there’s a war.”

  Lemper didn’t respond to that.

  “Is this just between you and me, or can I have him officially?” he asked.

  “I’ll have orders cut this morning, putting him on TDY, if that’s what you want.”

  “Please, Paul.”

  “You got it. I’ll see you in a couple of days, I expect.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Paul.”

  General Lemper hung up the telephone and then raised his voice.

  “Lieutenant Cole!”

  The general’s aide-de-camp promptly appeared at the office door.

  “Bill,” General Lemper said, “Colonel Lowell is probably still swimming around in hydraulic fluid in the QM warehouse area.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Lieutenant, you will present my compliments to Colonel Lowell, and inform him that he is now on temporary duty with this division for an indefinite period. You will inform him that he is now occupying the position of special assistant to the commanding general, and you will inform him that the commanding general wishes him to understand that the order restricting personnel to twelve hours’ duty per day applies to him.”

  The young officer smiled.

  “He’s really been lighting some fires under people, hasn’t he, sir?”

  “And then you will tell Colonel Lowell that the commanding general would be pleased if Colonel Lowell could take dinner with the commanding general at his quarters at 1800.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mrs. Lemper, I’m sure, would be pleased if you and Mrs. Cole could join us. And I hope you’re free. I think that you might find it educational.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re free, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Set it up with my wife, Bill, please, and tell her, please, no Indonesian buffet or anything else exotic. I don’t want Lowell to think I’m trying to poison him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  V

  (One)

  Brookley Air Force Base

  Mobile, Alabama

  1430 Hours, 28 October 1962

  Brookley Air Force Base was considered by logisticians to be the most ideally situated military supply facility in the world. Its eastern border was Mobile Bay, thus Brookley had “on-station” piers and wharfs for deep-water shipping. Brookley was also connected to the rail yards half a mile away, which were the terminus of four major railroad lines. And when the National Defense Highway System (“The Interstate”)—fought through Congress by President Eisenhower—was completed, I-10 (East and West) would run past Brookley’s west fence, and I-65 (North) would begin two miles from Brookley. Brookley’s runways were capable of handling any existing or projected fighter, bomber, or transport aircraft. Its maintenance hangars and its thousands of employees could perform any maintenance required by any aircraft in the Air Force inventory. And its enormous warehouse facilities contained stores of supplies for just about every Air Force maintenance need.

  As the Aero Commander approached Brookley from the west, it was overtaken by two Air Force fighters descending through ten thousand feet to Brookley. Lieutenant Colonel Craig W. Lowell heard the Brookley tower warn the flight leader that there were five aircraft in the vicinity; two C-130 transports at eight thousand, approaching Brookley from the west; two C-130s at five thousand, departing Brookley to the southeast; and one small civilian twin at four thousand, approaching Brookley from the west.

  “Roger, Brookley, we have the civilian twin in sight.”

  “Brookley clears Air Force Six Oh One and Six One Nine for simultaneous landing as Number One on Three Four. The winds are negligible, the altimeter is two niner niner niner.”

  Lowell reached over his head, slid the curtain out of the way, and looked through the Plexiglas panel for the fighters descending on him. A minute or so later, they flashed over him, their flaps, wheels, and speed brakes extended to dirty them up and slow them down.

  “Brookley, Air Force Six Oh One over the outer marker,” the Air Force flight leader reported.

  Lowell saw the two gleaming fighters land side by side on one of Brookley’s major runways. There were few places in the world with runways wide enough to handle two supersonic fighters landing simultaneously. Brookley was one of them.*

  Lowell slid the curtain back in place.

  “Brookley, Aero Commander One Five, at three thousand, two miles west, for landing.”

  “Aero Commander One Five, Brookley. Brookley is a military facility, closed to civilian traffic at this time. Suggest you divert to Mobile Municipal, six miles northwest.”

  “Brookley,” Lowell announced, somewhat pontifically, “Aero Commander One Five is in the military service of the United States. Request landing instructions.”

  There was almost a minute’s delay before Brookley came back on the air.

  “Aero Commander One Five, you are cleared as Number One on Three Four, after the C-141 on its takeoff roll. Beware of jet turbulence. The winds are negligible, the altimeter is two niner niner niner. On landing, take the first available taxiway and hold in place. A Follow Me will meet you.”

  “I see the 141, thank you,” Lowell said, and reached for the throttle quadrant, and then for the flaps and the wheels.

  He touched down just past the threshold, reversed his props, and slowed enough to make the first taxiway turnoff.

  The Follow Me Chevrolet pickup, painted in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern and flying two huge checkerboard flags, raced down the taxiway to him, turned around, and then led him to a parking ramp. An Air Force ground crewman jumped out of the truck, as an AP—Air Police—pickup truck drove up, and directed him to a parking place beside a huge C-141.

  When he opened the door and got out, one of the APs saw he was in uniform and almost visibly relaxed. He saluted.

  “Would you come with me, please, Colonel? They’d like to talk to you in Base Ops.”

  Just inside the double glass doors of Base Ops a gray-haired man in a flight suit, holding his helmet under his arms like a basketball, looked at Lowell in surprise. Lowell saluted. There were the silver stars of a brigadier general on the flight suit.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel,” the Air Force brigadier said. “That was you in the Commander?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “May I ask you a personal question, Colonel?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “What the hell have you been rolling around in? That uniform is the dirtiest one I can remember.”

  “Well, first, sir, there was a flood of hydraulic fluid, and then I spent the last two days in the rail yards in New Orleans.”

  “Steam cleaning the trains, no doubt?” the general asked. He seemed more amused than offended. “How can the Air Force assist the Army, Colonel? My question may be interpreted as official. I’m the deputy base commander. My name is Winston.”

  “General, my name is Lowell. I’m with the 2nd Armored Division. We’re running trains by here.”

  General Winston nodded.

  “In about an hour, there will be two sections—two enormous sections—of a special train carrying tanks and other heavy equipment. I’ve been able to arrange for messes aboard the troop trains, but the troops accompanying the equipment have been living on s
andwiches for three days, and I’d like to get them a hot meal. Especially the men guarding the ammo; they’ve had a rough time, all the way in boxcars.”

  “You can stop the trains here?”

  “I’ve arranged for each section to be stopped for an hour, sir. The second section is thirty minutes behind the first.”

  “Your concern for your men is as commendable, Colonel,” General Winston said, “as your uniform is disgraceful. What I intend to do is get on the horn to my food service officer, and order up a meal—steak and eggs always seems to go well in this kind of situation—and then I will personally call the officer in charge of our dry cleaning plant and tell him he is about to get a priority job. We’ll get you a flight suit to wear, and I don’t suppose you would turn down a cold beer?”

  “You’re very kind, sir.”

  The best efforts of the Brookley Air Force dry cleaning facility, under the personal direction of the supervisor, could not do much with Lieutenant Colonel Lowell’s uniform. It was indelibly stained with hydraulic fluid and railroad grease. But they pressed it up neatly, and he was wearing it again when the first section of the train ground to a halt at the west fence of Brookley.

  The Air Force was waiting for the troops of the 2nd Armored Division, not only with steak and eggs and french-fried potatoes and all the milk they could drink, but with lines of buses to take them to the Air Force barracks for a quick shower and a change of underwear.

  The first section of the train had just pulled out when an Air Force staff car drove up. It provided a radio link to Base Commo, and Base Commo was of course tied in to the military around the world.

  Major General Paul T. Jiggs, J-3, Joint Assault Force, MacDill Air Force Base, was on the horn.

  Khrushchev had blinked. The Russians would take their missiles out of Cuba. Aerial surveillance from Big Black Birds already had photographs showing that the disassembly process had begun. So the invasion was off. Second Armored was ordered to return to Fort Hood and stand down.

  Lieutenant Colonel Lowell privately and professionally believed it would have been far better for 2nd Armored to route itself home via Havana. Castro was still in place, and there was no question in his mind how the Russians regarded the situation. They would see this as only a temporary setback. Just as soon as they thought they could get away with it, they would sneak missiles back into Cuba. In the meantime they could turn the island into a logistics and submarine base ninety miles off the enemy’s shore.