"Affirmative, Blue Fox," the radio operator said.
"Blue Fox Bravo, can you get Colonel Rand to the mike?" The radio operator handed Rand the microphone.
What this is going to be is the troop commander, or maybe some major, or light colonel, who was just told I am here, is afraid I'm going to see or hear something he would rather I didn't see or hear, and wants me to know that at least he knows what's going on.
"Rand," Rand said.
"George, this is Donn. Where the hell have you been?
Seventh Army's about to have kittens." Donn was the commanding officer of the 14th Armored Cavalry, a just-promoted very young full colonel officer who was, as they say, going to go places. There were stars in his future.
Colonel Rand was aware that he was the opposite. He was getting more than a little long in the tooth as a colonel (he'd made colonel in Korea, nine years before) and it was growing more painfully evident each day that he had gone as far as he was going to go.
"Did they say why?"
"No. But there's a U-8 on its way to Fulda to pick you up..
And as soon as I get off the horn, I'm going' to send an H-13 to pick you up and carry you to Fulda." The H-13 was a Bell two-place, bubble-canopy helicopter. "What the hell are you doing out there, anyway?"
"Looking at the troops you're hiding from the IG."
"What makes you think I'm hiding anything or anybody, George?"
"I like what I found, Donn. These people not only look like soldiers, but they know what they're doing. You ought to be proud of them."
Out of the comer of his eye, Rand saw the radio operator's eyes light up, and was pleased. His comment would spread through the troop very quickly.
"I am, goddammit," the Colonel of the 14th Armored Cavalry Regiment said. "It's you that are making me look like a horse's ass. 'I'm sorry, General, I just don't seem to be able to lay my hands on Colonel Rand at this moment.
But I'm looking. Have patience.'"
"I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you, Donn," Rand said.
"You damned well should be," Donn said cheerfully.
"Hold one. The chopper is on the way. ETA four minutes.
Don't disappear again. "
"What do I do with the parka and the eskimo hat?"
"Give it to the chopper driver. You leave anything here at the Kaserne?"
"No. Thank you, Donn."
"My pleasure. Come again. Blue Stallion Out." It is nice, Colonel Rand thought, to be a very young full bull colonel, with your own regiment, Old Blue Stallion himself, looking forward to a first star, and then maybe an' epaulet full. It is infinitely nicer than being a senior colonel pushing paper around a headquarters and wondering what kind of a job you can get on civvy street when you finally face facts and put in for retirement.
As he handed the microphone back to the radio operator, he heard the first faint flucketa-flucketa. sounds of a helicopter coming toward them.
[THREE]
Office of the Commanding General
Headquarters Seventh United States Army.
Stuttgart/Vaihingen. Federal Republic of Germany 1830 Hours 12 December 1963 It was after-duty hours, and the desks in the General's outer office normally occupied by his secretary, aide-de-camp, and sergeant major were vacant. Off the outer office, in a small room occupied during duty hours by the sergeant major's clerk and another clerk typist, the FOD-Field Grade Officer of the Day-and the CQ-Charge of Quarters-had set up shop to answer the phones and otherwise hold things down overnight.
The FOD was a lieutenant colonel wearing the insignia of the Quartermaster Corps. Though Colonel George F. Rand could not remember having seen him before, he knew who Rand was.
"Sir," he said, standing up behind one of the desks when he saw Rand walk in, "the General expects you. Go right in." The General's door was ajar but not open. Rand rapped his class ring against the doorjamb.
"Who is it?"
"Rand, Sir."
"Come in, Colonel." Rand stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and saluted.
"For a while, Colonel," the General said, "no one seemed to know where you were."
"I went out and looked at a patrol, Sir."
"And how is Blue Stallion and his merry lads?"
"That's a pretty good outfit, Sir. Morale's high. They know what they're doing. And they seem to think very highly of Young Blue Stallion himself."
"They alone or you too?"
"He's as bright as they come. And a nice guy. Unflappable.
He's going to wear stars, I'll bet on it."
"You should never bet on who will get to wear stars and who won't," the General said. "You've been around the Army long enough to know that, George." Colonel Rand looked at the General curiously , wondering if Blue Stallion had somehow turned up on the General's bad guy list.
"Yes, Sir," Rand said.
"The reason I had you brought back from Hersfeld, George, is that I'm having a few people in for drinks tonight and I wanted you there. Pamela's called Susan, so I suspect when you get home she'll be dressed and waiting for you."
"May I ask what the-occasion is, Sir?" Rand asked. He was more than a little surprised at what the General had told him.
"A little combination farewell party and celebration among old friends, George. We got a DA TWX. There's a PCS" -Permanent Change of Station-"to Benning, and a name sent the Senate for confirmation as a BG. You ever hear of the 11th Air Assault Division, George? Eleventh Air Assault Division [Test]?"
"No, Sir, I haven't."
"You have no idea what it is?"
"No, Sir. It probably has something to do with The Howze Board. They're experimenting with aerial battlefield mobility.
I heard they might run a troop test at Benning, but I can't imagine a division-sized test."
"Neither can I," the General said. He, like every other senior officer in the Army, knew that Defense Secretary McNamara had appointed a board under Lieutenant General Hamilton R. Howze, a pillar of the Armor Establishment (and thus, inevitably, "The Howze Beard") to see how Army battlefield mobility could be enhanced with Army-owned aircraft. The Air Force, of course, was enraged at what it considered an invasion of its prerogatives. "What do you think of the whole idea, George?"
"I don't really know enough about what they're doing to judge, Sir," Rand said. "It seems to me that the moment they start forming aviation units larger than a battalion, the Air Force is going to go right through the roof."
"I thought you were pretty good pals with Bill Roberts," the General said. "He's got McNamara's ear and he's been pushing Army Aviation for years." Brigadier General William R. Roberts was an artilleryman who had spent his career around small, light Army aircraft.
But he was more famous as the officer who had first said out loud what a lot of Army people knew in their hearts but were too prudent to say: "Since the Air Force obviously has little or no interest in anything but jet fighters, bombers, and, Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles, if the Army needs aircraft on the 'battlefield, we're going to have to get them ourselves." It was also generally believed that Roberts had sown this heretical seed in Defense Secretary McNamara's ear while Roberts was assigned to Research and Development in the Pentagon. It was generally believed, in other words, that he was in large measure responsible for McNamara's establishment of The Howze Board.
"We're classmates," Rand said. "I see him every once in a while. But no, Sir, not pals."
"I find that very surprising," the General said.
"Sir? "
"You're to report to the 11th Air Assault Division [Test] not later than 31 December," the General said.
"Jesus!" Rand said, genuinely surprised. "I wonder why."
"The TWX didn't say. Just that you will be there before 31 December."
"Well, if they are conducting a division-size test, that implies at least one regiment. Maybe they're going to give me a regiment."
"No, I know it's not that," the General said, and when Rand looked at him in surprise
added, "They don't give regiments to brigadier generals, George." He came from behind the desk, holding a silver, five pointed star in his hand. He handed it to Rand.
"I. D. White gave this to me when I made brigadier," the General said. "You can't put it on yet, George, you're still BG Designate. But when the orders come down, I would be sort of pleased if this was the first star you did pin on. I can't think of anyone who deserves it more."
The General's prediction was correct. When Brigadier General [Designate] George F. Rand walked through the front door of his ,quarters thirty-five minutes later, Susan Rand was indeed suitably dressed and coiffured to take cocktails and dinner with the Commanding General of the Seventh United States Army.
She looks good, George Rand thought. Three kids and twenty-three years of marriage and she still turns me on.
She was also, George Rand saw, annoyed.
"You could have called, damn you," she said. "I didn't know until this moment, when you walked through the. door, whether you were going to show up for this what ever it is or not. "
"I wasn't close to a phone," he said, "Sorry."
"Baloney."
"Hello, dear," he mocked."
"Welcome home. How was your day?"
"I don't give much of a damn, frankly, about your day.
But. vis-a-vis mine, at three o'clock this afternoon, the General's wife called, and in that regal manner of hers commanded our presence for cocktails and dinner. What's going on, George?"
"What would you like first? The good news or the bad?"
"The bad, I think. It will fit in nicely with my mood."
"Pack," George Rand said.
There was a moment's hesitation before Susan Rand replied.
"Where are we going?"
"Benning. "
"When?"
"I have to be there no later than 31 December."
"Damn it, they did-it again!" Susan Rand said. "Why is it everybody else in the U. S. Army gets anywhere from sixty days to six months notice of a PCS, and you get-what-three weeks?"
"You don't have to be there by 31 December-I do."
"Oh, no, George. Whither thou goest, et cetera. But, damn it, I just finished putting up the Christmas tree!"
"I'm going to the 11th Air Assault Division," Rand said.
"Correction, the 11th Air Assault Division [Test]."
"What's that? I never heard of it. "
"Neither did I until about a half an hour ago," he said.
"Rather obviously it has something to do with The Howze Board and Bill Roberts and the Army's Air Force. I had heard they were doing, or going to do, a troop test at Benning. But a division-size troop test surprises me. I haven't had a chance to find out more." She looked at him thoughtfully.
"What are you going to do? Chief of Staff?"
"No. "
"Then what else can you do as a colonel? Go back to being a Division G-3? Back to commanding a regiment? Can you get out of it? Didn't they even ask you?"
"No, they didn't ask me, and no, I don't think I can get out of it. I don't want to get out of it. "
"Oh" to hell with them, George! Tell them you don't want the assignment. Put in your retirement papers. If the Army isn't smart enough to give you a star, to hell with them."
"That's the good news," George Rand said.
IV
[ONE]
Quarters #1 Fort Rucker, Alabama
1915 Hours 12 December 1963
Major General Robert F. Bellmon answered his home telephone a little testily. He did not like taking unscreened calls.
But his wife, who considered screening his calls to be one, of her wifely duties, was not at home. And his daughter, Marjorie, who was, had the apparent intention of setting a Guinness Book of Records mark for Longest Hours Spent By One Twenty-One Year-Old Female under a Shower Head.
"Bellmon!" he snapped, snatching the telephone from its wall cradle in the kitchen.
"Oh, hell," his caller said. "I hoped Barbara would-pick up." It took Bellmon a moment to identify the voice of Brigadier
"General Paul T. Hanrahan, Commandant of the Special Forces School and the titular head Green Beret.
"She's not here at the moment, Red," Bellmon said. "Is there anything I can do for You?âť
âśThere is, but I would rather have had the chance to ask her if you were in a good mood before I asked.âť
âś'I'm one of the world's most gracious men," Bellmon said.
"I thought you knew that, Red.âť
âśThen who was it that answered the phone? A visiting ogre?âť
"Was it that bad?" Bellmon said, now smiling.
"Would you like to swap stories about who had the lousiest day?" Hanrahan asked.
"I don't know about you, General," Bellmon said, "but my day, as usual, was nothing but sweetness and light. And it ended with the entirely satisfying feeling that things had indeed got better and better in every way." Hanrahan laughed. âś
âśWhat can I do for you, Red?âť
âśI'd like one of your officers," Hanrahan said.
"Just one? I've got about two dozen I'd be delighted to send over there in the morning. One colonel in particular.âť
âśJust one, Bob. One particular one.âť
âśThat's what I was afraid of.âť
âśOne little captain," Hanrahan said. "You probably won't even know he's gone.âť
âśWhy do I suspect I am being charmed out of my socks?âť
âśPerish the thought.âť
âśHave your G-l tell my G-l you can have him," Bellmon said. "There, doesn't that prove what a nice guy I am?" Hanrahan's voice grew serious.
"Robert, your G-l has told my G-l I can't have him. That's why I'm calling you." What the hell is going on here? If my G-I has told Hanrahan's G-I he can't have somebody, that should be it. We must need him here. And Hanrahan is fully aware that he s asking me to pull the rug out from under my G-I by overturning one of his decisions.
"Who is this captain?" Bellmon asked. "More importantly, why do you need him?"
"To instruct in the training of long-range patrolling for Vietnam," Hanrahan said.
"He's a snake eater?âť
âśNo, he's an airplane driver," Hanrahan said. "But he has 'Nam experience-âť
âśAnd his name is John S. Oliver, Junior, right?" Bellmon interrupted.
"Yeah. You know him?âť
âśI'm about to make him my aide, Red," Bellmon said.
"Your 0-1 apparently didn't tell my 0-1 that," Hanrahan said. "If he had, I wouldn't have bothered you.âť
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