The Generals

by W. E. B Griffin

  He was at five hundred feet, making two hundred knots. He saw the one-in-five tracers spraying the forest. He took his finger off the trigger and watched the warning lights panel. The HYDRAULIC FAILURE lights remained off. But Major Parker was an experienced, which is to say cautious, pilot. He decided not to pull up and make a steep 180°, so he could dive again quickly on the mortar positions. Instead he’d make a wide, slow turn at his present altitude, and then make a final strafing run. That would exhaust his ordance, and the Skyraiders would be on target by then.

  He was in a slightly nose-down position when the HYDRAULIC FAILURE lights came on again, and this time they stayed on.

  When he tried to raise the nose after the run—gently, not an attempt to zoom up dramatically—he found he had neither rudder nor aileron control. The Mohawk was headed for the ground, and there was nothing whatever he could do about it.

  “We’re going to have to eject,” he announced, reasonably calmly, “and right now.”

  Then he pressed the microphone switch.

  “Mayday, mayday, Army One Oh Four has lost all hydraulics. Am ejecting at this time. I hope you guys have got me on the radar.”

  Major Parker looked at his copilot and nodded. Then, very frightened, he reached over his head and pulled down a device which both covered his face against the shock of ejection and triggered the mechanism. He felt the blast as explosive bolts sent the cockpit canopy off into the windstream. There was a brief moment when he felt the airstream, and then, as a 20-mm blank shell in the Martin-Baker ejection seat went off, he felt the blow to his back and buttocks as the seat was blown free of the aircraft.

  It was even worse than he had anticipated, and he had worried a lot about actually having to eject.

  He felt himself spinning through the air, sensed his parachute deploying, felt the seat separate from him, and then there was a pop as the canopy of the parachute opened and he was swinging back and forth under it.

  In the last moment before his feet struck the tops of the canopy of trees in the forest, he saw—chilled and horrified—his copilot. His chute had not deployed. Waving his arms as if this somehow would brake his fall, the copilot disappeared into the treetops.

  (Three)

  Fort Riley, Kansas

  0930 Hours, 21 February 1963

  The situation was unusual. Army Regulations prescribed that a notification team (an officer of grade equal to, or superior to, that of the casualty; a chaplain of the appropriate faith; and a medical officer, if available) would call upon the immediate next of kin. If the casualty was married, the parents were no longer next of kin. Major Philip S. Parker IV was married.

  But in this case, by the direct order of the Deputy Commanding General, CONARC, a notification team would call upon the casualty’s parents. And not the regularly assigned Fort Riley notification team alone. The commanding general had been informed that a Lieutenant Colonel Lowell and party would arrive at Fort Riley at approximately 0930 hours, and would be afforded every courtesy in their mission.

  Inasmuch as the Deputy Commanding General, CONARC, was personally involved, the commanding general of Fort Riley decided that it was appropriate for him to be at the airfield when the aircraft carrying Lieutenant Colonel Lowell and party arrived. He had ordered the notification team, of course, to be on hand with an extra staff car and orders to be wholly cooperative. But if this Lieutenant Colonel Lowell was important enough to be sent by the deputy CONARC commander personally, he was important enough to be met by the Riley CG.

  He was surprised when the aircraft that landed turned out to be a civilian Aero Commander. And when the door opened, he was surprised again that the first person out turned out to be a tall, sharp-featured black woman in a knee-length mink coat.

  She turned around, and two children, a boy and a girl encased in hooded nylon jackets against the cold, stepped to the ground. Then an officer, out of uniform in old-fashioned and now proscribed pinks and greens, got out. The general was so surprised at the old uniform that it was a moment before he saw that the wearer of the uniform was also wearing his medals—a solid mass of them covering his breast—not just the ribbons. There was a 2nd Armored Division patch on his sleeve, and the stars of a major general on his epaulets.

  And then he recognized the general. He had been in North Africa as a young major when General Harmon was commander of the 2nd Armored Division.

  The general brushed by his notification team and saluted.

  “Welcome to Fort Riley, General,” he said. “I regret the circumstances.”

  “Thank you,” General Harmon said. “May I present Dr. Parker? Dr. Parker is Major Parker’s wife.”

  She nodded and made a failing stab at a smile.

  “This is Colonel Lowell,” Harmon said, gesturing to the officer coming out of the door of the Aero Commander. Colonel Lowell was in uniform, and his breast too was covered with medals, not ribbons. An enormous gold medal, the size of a coffee cup saucer, was pinned to a purple sash running diagonally across his chest. The general had never seen one like that before.

  Lowell saluted, a crisp gesture. Good-looking officer, the general thought. He wondered where he had gotten the expensive civilian airplane.

  “Riley is completely at your disposal, General,” the general said. “I believe you once commanded here?”

  “Yes,” Harmon said. “Thank you.”

  “This is our notification team,” the General said.

  Harmon looked them over.

  “I appreciate your interest, gentlemen,” he said, in his gravelly voice, “but I don’t think we’ll need you. If you, General, on the other hand, can spare the time from your duties to accompany us, I would be grateful.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “We have to make a rest stop for the children,” Harmon said. “There used to be facilities in that hangar.” He pointed.

  “Yes, sir,” the general said.

  “If I may ride with you, General,” Harmon said. “Colonel Lowell can ride with Dr. Parker.”

  “Yes, sir, of course,” the general said.

  The day was clear and bright, after several days of snow. The surface of the snow at the Parker farm was unbroken, save for a field to the left of the rambling wooden farmhouse, where Colonel Philip S. Parker III, Retired, had been exercising his Labradors.

  They were easily seen from the road. The Labradors were black against the snow, and Colonel Parker was wearing a bright red tufted kapok nylon jacket.

  When Colonel Parker saw the two staff cars turn off the highway into the drive, he started walking toward the house. By the time he got there, the staff cars had stopped before the house on the circular driveway. An American flag hung list-lessly from a thirty-foot pole.

  When he saw Toni and the children, he had a very good idea what was going on. When he saw Ernie Harmon and Craig Lowell wearing their medals, as well as the Fort Riley commanding general, there was little question at all.

  Lowell saluted as Parker approached. Parker nodded, but did not return it. Only military personnel in uniform were entitled to salute.

  “Gentlemen,” Colonel Parker said. “Please come directly to the point of your visit.”

  There was a pause, then General Harmon broke it.

  “Phil, I’m afraid we have to put the colors at half-mast.”

  “Philip has fallen,” Colonel Parker said.

  “No, sir,” Lowell said, quickly. “He went down, but he got out. His chute opened.”

  “A prisoner, then?” Colonel Parker asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Lowell said. “We believe that to be the case.”

  “In that case, sir, with respect,” Colonel Parker said, “I do not think it appropriate to half-mast the colors.”

  “Of course not, Phil,” General Harmon said. “That was stupid of me.”

  “One has difficulty finding the appropriate words at a time like this,” Colonel Parker said. He looked at his daughter-in-law. “My dear Toni,” he said. “How terrible fo
r you, and how good of you to come.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Dad!” Dr. Parker said.

  Colonel Parker saw his wife on the porch.

  “Philip’s aircraft went down,” Colonel Parker said. “His parachute opened. They believe him to be a prisoner. I’m sure there are some other details, but they can wait, I believe, until we get the children out of the cold.”

  Mrs. Parker came off the porch and scooped up the younger child. Dr. Parker picked up the older and the women went in the house.

  “After you, gentlemen, if you please,” Colonel Parker said to the others.

  There were a number of photographs of Philip Sheridan Parker IV on the mantelpiece of the library. There was one of him as a Boy Scout; another of him in cadet uniform at Norwich; another in a brand-new second lieutenant’s uniform on his graduation; another as a captain with an M4A3 tank in Korea; and one with his Mohawk in Vietnam.

  “General Bellmon sends his compliments, sir,” Lowell said. “He just couldn’t get away. General Hanrahan is in Vietnam.”

  “I was privileged to command the unit which released Bellmon from captivity,” Colonel Parker said.

  “Yes, sir, General Bellmon asked me to remind you of that. He said he will remind you again when he telephones.”

  “That’s very kind of him,” Colonel Parker said. “What details can you give me?”

  “All that General Hanrahan had, sir,” Lowell said, “was that Phil was flying a Mohawk in support of a Marine operation. The Marines came under fire from VC mortars. Phil was strafing them when he went in. There was one brief radio message, a Mayday, saying he’d lost his hydraulics and was ejecting.”

  “And what have you of a concrete nature to support your belief that he is a prisoner?” Parker asked.

  “The Marines went after him, Colonel,” Lowell said. “They found the body of Phil’s copilot. His chute didn’t open. Navy pilots coming on the scene reported the deployment of a parachute, which had to be Phil. The Marines on the ground found Phil’s deployed chute in the trees. They reported signs which indicate Phil was captured and taken away.”

  Colonel Parker nodded.

  “It was good of you, Craig, to bring Toni and the children here.”

  “My privilege, sir,” Lowell said.

  “I’ve spoken with Colonel Felter, sir,” Lowell said. “He tells me that it is possible, repeat possible, that he will have some definite word on Phil within two or three weeks. If he is taken north, it may take a little longer.”

  Colonel Parker considered that.

  “If anyone can find Phil, Felter can,” he said finally.

  “Would I be intruding?” Toni Parker said, coming into the room.

  “You are, of course, quite welcome,” Colonel Parker said. “Despite the hour, I was about to offer a libation. I don’t suppose you—”

  “Yes, I would, Dad,” Toni said, “please.”

  Colonel Parker went to a liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of twenty-four-year-old Ambassador Scotch, lined up glasses, and poured Scotch an inch deep in each of them. He then passed out the glasses and raised his own.

  “Absent companions, gentlemen,” he said.

  “Absent companions,” they parroted, and drank it down.

  “Colonel,” the Fort Riley CG said, “if I have to say this, if there’s any way Riley can be of assistance, or myself personally…”

  “That’s very kind of you, General,” Parker replied. “But I can’t think of a thing.”

  Colonel Parker ceremoniously refilled the glasses.

  “I have a question of General Harmon,” Colonel Parker said. “Philip, I must tell you, Craig, was—is—rather amused at the notion of your being at Norwich as an undergraduate. I confess that I too find it, on the surface, rather amusing.”

  “Well, I’m glad that someone finds it amusing,” Lowell said.

  “How is Colonel Lowell doing as an undergraduate, General?” Parker asked.

  “Well, Phil,” Harmon said, “he posed a small problem for one of my colonels, who based his Armor Operations course on Task Force Lowell. He found it disconcerting to have Lowell there while he was playing it out on the sandtable. Aside from that, he seems to have adjusted well.”

  “I very much appreciate your coming here, General,” Colonel Parker said.

  “We’re old friends, Phil,” Harmon said. “I regret the circumstances.”

  “Phil’ll be all right, Colonel,” Lowell said.

  “Yes, I have every confidence he will be,” Colonel Parker said.

  “He told me,” Toni blurted, “that he’d rather be killed than captured.”

  The men looked at each other, but none of them could think of anything to say in reply.

  VII

  (One)

  Personal Effects Storage Area

  Camp Buckner, Okinawa

  16 August 1962

  “You got the wrong place, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said, with the clear implication that here was yet another proof that officers couldn’t read. “The sign says ‘Stored Enlisted Gear.’”

  “I went over there as a sergeant.” the lieutenant replied. “Craig, Geoffrey, US 5260674.”

  The duffle bag was found and delivered, and he carried it to his BOQ.

  First Lieutenant Geoffrey Craig, late of the First Special Forces Group, was now out-processed from Vietnam duty via Okinawa. What that meant was that, dreadfully hung over, he was flown out of Foo Two by helicopter one morning and taken to Da Nang. There, nursing a cold beer, he went through a brief in-Country out-Processing briefing. He was then told his next stop would be Okinawa. There he would reclaim his personal gear, undergo a physical, and could expect to be on a plane to the Land of the Big PX within no more than thirty-six hours. The briefing officer carefully pointed out that war souvenirs were forbidden. And fully automatic weapons, such as the AK-47, placed their possessors in great jeopardy from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Lieutenant Craig had turned in his issue weapon, an M-1911A1 .45-caliber pistol, and then boarded a C-131 bound for Okinawa, carrying a barracks bag with a suspiciously AK-47–like bulge.

  At Camp Buckner, he was provided with a steak dinner, shown temporary quarters, subjected to a rather detailed physical, and told that since a chartered American Overseas Airways jet had departed for San Francisco not long before his C-131 had landed, he would have the opportunity to wallow in the cultural attractions of Okinawa for at least twenty-four hours before the next one left. There would be plenty of time for him to get paid and collect his gear and have a couple of beers.

  Two events made him profoundly aware that he had been for more than six months an officer and a gentleman. The first was the sight of the stack of twenty dollar bills counted out to him when he endorsed the check Finance gave him. It was as much cash as he could ever remember seeing at one time, even in the legendary poker games at Da Nang. Lieutenants, obviously, got paid considerably more than sergeants. He converted all but six hundred dollars of it into U.S. Postal Money Orders.

  The second happened when he carried his duffle bag to the Transient BOQ and unpacked it. He had been taught to pack a duffle bag by his brother-in-law, and he marveled anew at Staff Sergeant Karl-Heinz Wagner’s all-around soldierly skills. When he took his clothing from the duffle bag and shook it out, it was practically creaseless, even after thirteen months in the warehouse. There was sort of a wave in the trousers, but that would shake out.

  There was only one problem with the uniform. It was an enlisted man’s uniform. Not only did the sleeves carry the three stripes of a sergeant, but the blouse did not have the black stripe on the cuff, nor the trousers the black stripe down the seam that an officer’s blouse and trousers did.

  Fuck it, Lieutenant Craig decided. He was only going to wear the sonofabitch long enough to go home and resign anyway, and there was no sense buying a uniform to wear no more than he intended to wear it. He could think of no good reason why he couldn’t resign the moment he hit the States.

  He
took a razor blade and very carefully slit the stitching of the chevrons, and then very carefully pulled all the little threads loose. You could still see where the stripes had been, but unless he ran into some chickenshit, he could get away with it. He started to throw the stripes away, and then decided against that. He would frame them. He took lieutenant’s bars and the gold crossed rifles of Infantry from his toilet kit, and replaced the enlisted insignia with them. Headgear posed no problem. The only difference between enlisted and officer green berets was that officers wore their rank insignia pinned to the flash.

  He examined himself in the mirror, decided he passed muster and that he could now go to the O Club for a medicinal beer and something to eat.

  He almost made it before he encountered some chickenshit captain of the Adjutant General’s Corps, who was officer of the day. Restraining the impulse to tell the captain to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut (the consequences of which would likely involve at least missing the next plane), he said, “Yes, sir, I’m on my way to the Officers’ Sales Store at this very moment.”

  He smarted at the captain’s condescending treatment of him.

  “Now that you’re an officer, you have certain obligations in manners of dress and in other ways.”

  He had been treated as if he had just got here from some desk in Saigon rather than as somebody who had completed a tour with the Montagnards in the Highlands. But when he got to the sales store and saw himself in the mirror, he found the explanation. There was nothing on his uniform but the bars and rifles. No Combat Infantry Badge, no parachutist’s wings, no fruit salad. The only thing that identified him as a Highlands type was a bracelet made from strands of an elephant’s tail, and that dumb shit from the AGC couldn’t be expected to know what that was.

  Fuck it, give in. He had a pisspot full of dough anyway.

  An hour later, he emerged from the sales store wearing one new officer’s uniform and carrying another. He had come to a deal with the young soldier in charge: old uniform and the price of a bottle of bourbon for instant tailor service. He had black stripes where there were supposed to be black stripes, and he had all his fruit salad and other doodads. He looked, he thought, not entirely modestly, like a recruiting poster. He had never worn his ribbons before, and he was astonished by how many, both American and Vietnamese, he had. He even had Vietnamese parachutist’s wings, the result of having met a Vietnamese Beret while on a three-day R&R on the beach. Jumping with Vietnamese Berets had seemed like a splendid idea at three in the morning; and at half past five, when they woke him up to take him, it had been too late to back out.