"Too late," she said. "Your father's put it on the phone table in the foyer. He's greeting people, 'Good evening, and, incidentally, let me show you what President Johnson gave George today."
Lunsford laughed. "I wondered where the hell it was." Her eyebrows rose.
"I wondered where, delete expletive, it was," he said.
"Better," she said. "George, these people just don't understand. "
"That's what's known as a massive understatement."
"I'm not sure I do," his mother said. "All I know is that I'm proud of you and I thank God you're home."
"Then nothing else matters, Mom. And I give you my word as a field grade, designate, officer and gentleman that I will behave myself tonight. "
Then finish whatever you're doing with that gun, get yourself dressed, and come down. Just about everybody's here and they're all anxious to see you."
"For one reason or another," Lunsford said dryly. Then: "Sorry. Yes, Ma'am. I will be right down. Thank you for the oysters. "She raised her hand and gently touched his cheek. Then she walked out of the room.
Lunsford sat down at his desk again. He opened a drawer, took from it a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and took a pull at its neck.
Then he started putting the Colt Commander back together.
He had been downstairs thirty minutes when he was called to the telephone.
"Captain Lunsford."
"I understand they cured the clap OK, but that they're having trouble with the scabies, crabs, and blue balls," his caller announced.
Captain Lunsford didn't reply for a moment. He was surprised at the emotion he felt.
Then he said, "How you doing, Slats? Robbed any good dogs lately?"
He expected something wiseass from Oliver in return; at the very least a suggestion that he attempt a physiologically impossible coital feat.
"Father," Oliver said seriously, "I know you just got home, but I'd like to buy you a drink. "
"I accept. You have some sort of date and place in mind?"
"Now," Oliver said.
"Now? Oliver, you asshole, where are you?"
"In Philly. "
"In Philly? How soon can you get here?"
"I'd rather not come out there."
"Why the hell not?" Lunsford asked, confused.
There was a pause and then Oliver said, "I need to talk to somebody. You're elected."
"Slats, you sound real down. The widow broke off that famous shaft of yours?"
"Ah, shit, I've got no right to dump this all on you."
"In a pig's ass, you don't. That broad is giving you a bad time, right?"
"That's part of it. The other part is that I'm supposed to report to Benning as of 1 January to work for General Rand and I don't want to go."
"They trying to make you a career dog-robber or what?"
"Something like that."
"Listen to me, Slats. Where are you?"
"Out by some athletic stadium. I just got off 1-95."
"South Philly," Lunsford said. "Is there a great big stainless steel diner-the Philadelphian, something like that anywhere around where you are?"
"I'm in it."
"It'll take me thirty minutes to get there," Lunsford said.
"Can you drive? You just got out of the hospital. "
"Don't argue with me, I'm a goddamned major designate.
All I want to hear from you is yes, Sir."
"Yes, Sir."
"I will come there, and we will find a saloon, and you can pour your heart out to me."
"Thanks, Father," Oliver said emotionally.
"Be at peace, my son," Lunsford said sonorously. "For someone like myself, who has just single-handedly saved the Congo from the forces of international communism, your minor problems in interpersonal relationships are a mere bagatelle."
Oliver chuckled.
Lunsford was pleased. "Keep your hands off the waitresses until I get there," Father said and hung up.
XXI
{ONE]
Office of the Commanding General
The Army Aviation Center & Fort Rucker, Alabama
18 December 1964
Major General Robert F. Bellmon had before him the draft of "The Commanding General's Christmas Message." It had been written for him by his aide-de-camp, Captain Richard J. Hornsby. Captain Hornsby was new on the job, but it had already become apparent to Bellmon that literary skill and finesse were not among his assets. Even worse, he apparently didn't know it. If he had, he would have looked in the file and stolen something from the year before-or the decade before. Johnny Oliver's statement last year, he thought, might not have been original, but it was head and shoulders above this: It is the Commanding General's desire to express joyous wishes of the Yuletide Season to the officers, enlisted personnel, civilian employees and dependents of the Army Aviation Center."
It went on from there, far, far longer than was necessary, and it grew more stilted and artificial with each sentence.
"Hello, down there, from Mount Olympus! This is your stuffy Commanding General speaking! " Bellmon thought, and then concluded; I really hate to jump on his ass so soon, but this just won't cut it.
At that moment Captain Hornsby, an athletic young man in a well-fitting uniform, appeared at his door.
"Come on in, Dick," Bellmon said. "I was just about to send for you."
"Yes, Sir?"
"Have another go at this thing. It's a little too long, and see if you can't make it sound a little less like an operations order. See if you can work Mrs. Bellmon and my family into it, too, will you?"
"Yes, Sir," Captain Hornsby said. His face mirrored his disappointment and chagrin.
"Have you got something for me, Dick?"
"Yes, Sir. This TWX just came in and I thought you would like to see it." Bellmon took it and glanced at it very quickly. It was a Routine message, signed by some colonel for the Adjutant General. It was probably yet one more admonition to him to limit drinking by the troops over the holidays, or, failing that, to keep them from killing themselves on the highway, full of holiday cheer. Whatever -it was, it wasn't all that important and could wait for a couple of minutes.
"Dick, there's no way you could have known what I wanted," Bellmon said kindly. "Why don't you look in the file and see what Johnny Oliver wrote for me last year. For that matter, go back several years. General Cairns always wrote his own. He was possessed of greater literary skills than you and me."
"Yes, Sir," Captain Hornsby said. "Thank you, Sir. I'll do better the second time around."
"I'm sure you will," Bellmon said. He smiled at Hornsby until the young officer had left.
I think I handled that rather well; he decided.
He picked up the TWX, which was printed on a roll of yellowish teletype paper, and read it. The smile vanished. His lips tightened. He clenched. his teeth and was aware that his temples were throbbing. "Sonofabitch!" he muttered and reached for his telephone. Then he reminded himself of his solemn vow to count to twenty slowly twice before picking up a telephone when he was angry. He slumped back in his chair, and read the TWX again.
ROUTINE
HQ DEPT OF THE ARMY WASH DC 1005 18DEC64
COMMANDING GENERAL
FORT RUCKER AND THE ARMY AVIATION CENTER ALA
ATTN; AVNC-AG
INFO: PERSONAL ATTN MAJ GEN BELLMON
1. SO MUCH OF PARAGRAPH 23, GENERAL ORDER 297, HQ DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY 29 NOVEMBER 1964 PERTAINING TO CAPT JOHN S. OLIVER ARMOR AS READS "IS RELIEVED OF PRESENT ASSIGNMENT AND TRANSFERRED TO HEADQUARTERS COMPANY I ITH AIR ASSAULT DIVISION FORT BENNING GA EFFECTIVE I JAN 1965" IS AMENDED TO READ "IS RELIEVED OF PRESENT ASSIGNMENT AND TRANSFERRED TO HEADQUARTERS JOHN F. KENNEDY CENTER FOR SPECIAL WARFARE FORT BRAGG NC EFFECTIVE I JAN 1965."
2. IT IS SUGGESTED THAT SUBJECT OFFICER BE NOTIFIED OF THIS CHANGE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
FOR THE ADJUTANT GENERAL J .C. LESTER LTCOL AGC ACTING ASSISTANT ADJUTANT GENERAL
Johnny Oliver had been a good aide, a very good
aide, a goddamned good aide. And not only that, he'd gone above and beyond the call of duty and stuck his neck out as a friend for the Bellmons.
Bellmon wasn't supposed to know, and Barbara and Bobby certainly didn't know he knew, but he had his sources. And he had found out that Bobby was given an elimination check ride that he had been almost certain to flunk. And then all of a sudden, Bobby had miraculously polished his skills literally overnight. He'd passed the check ride and gone on and gotten rated.
Bellmon didn't believe in miracles. So he checked that out, first with the instructor pilot, who told him he wouldn't pass Jesus Christ himself if he didn't think he was safe to fly and up to snuff. Bellmon believed him and he looked elsewhere for the answer.
And it turned out that Johnny Oliver was responsible. Fully aware that if he was caught at it he would be permanently taken off flight status himself (not to mention the lousy efficiency report Bellmon would have been obliged to give him), Johnny had taken Bobby out in a helicopter and taught him enough to get him past the check ride. And Johnny had not waved his General's Aide insignia in anybody's face, either, hiding behind the throne. He had taken the risk knowing that if Bellmon caught him he could kiss his career goodbye. He had done it because he liked Bobby and because he knew Bobby's father would be heartbroken if Bobby busted out. Not without a certain uneasiness, Bellmon had decided in the end that more harm than good would come from his becoming officially aware of what had taken place. The Army would lose two pilots, and in Johnny Oliver's case, anyway, a bright young officer with great potential. And that potential was going to be enhanced by work for George Rand in the 11th Air Assault. He would come out of that assignment knowing how a division functioned in combat-not any division, but the Army's first airmobile division. And he'd probably come out with a gold leaf on his collar point, too and he'd have it justifiably. For he'd have unusual knowledge and experience for an officer of his age and length of service. It was a damned good assignment for him, and for the Army.
And now the orders were changed. Johnny was assigned to The John F. Kennedy Center for Special Warfare.
Those sonsofbitches in Green Berets again!
He was not going to stand still and have those bastards take a perfectly decent, upstanding, outstanding young officer and ruin him!
He lit a cigarette, and when he saw that his hand was hardly shaking at all, he punched his intercom button and, proud of the control he was now exercising over his voice, he very calmly and politely asked his secretary to see if she could get Brigadier General Hanrahan at the JFK Center at Bragg for him.
"If he's not in his office, Mrs. Delally, try his quarters, please." General Hanrahan was not in his headquarters. He was not in his quarters either. So General Bellmon had to settle for Mrs. Hanrahan. After he wished her a Merry Christmas, she told him Red was off somewhere with Craig Lowell and that she didn't really expect him back until Christmas Eve.
If he was off with Lieutenant Colonel Craig Lowell, God only knew where they would be. And God, if he had any sense, would probably not want to know.
When Mrs. Delally called the Office of the Adjutant General in the Pentagon, the only officer he could get on the phone, a light colonel, obviously didn't have the brains to blow his nose without illustrated instructions.
"No problem, thank you, Colonel, I'll call again in the morning. "
He had less trouble getting Brigadier General George F. Rand on the telephone.
"I have a TWX here, George," he said. "Assigning Johnny Oliver to Red Hanrahan and the snake eaters. You know anything about it?"
"You don't?" Rand asked.
"First I'd heard of it. What do you know?"
"He called me a couple of days ago and very politely said that he'd been offered another job."
"By Red Hanrahan?" Bellmon interrupted.
"He said at the Special Warfare Center, but I'm sure he meant Red, because-after I told him I wouldn't stand in his way-Red called me and asked if I minded. He said he had a job for him, with a little less pressure than he's been under.
But that if I really needed him-et cetera et cetera. "
"Hanrahan wanted him when he first became my aide," Bellmon said.
"But you didn't know about this, huh?"
"Oliver is on leave. It must have come up all of a sudden.
George, if I can talk some sense to you, will you still take him?"
"Sure. Love to have him."
"I'm going to look into this. I'll probably get back to you.
Thank you, George." General Bellmon hung up. And then he broke, one by one, six #2 lead, rubber-tipped pencils into inch-long pieces. Then he walked out of his office, smiled at Mrs. Delally and said that he would be going to his quarters, now, to dress for the party.
[TWO]
Annex #1,
Officers Open Mess
Fort Rucker, Alabama
1645 Hours 18 December 1964
Second Lieutenant Robert F. Bellmon, Jr., sat at the bar of Annex # 1 drinking Millers High Life from a can and feeling more than a little sorry for himself. He was about to Jose the companionship of the officers sitting on either side of him at the bar, Captain John S. Oliver and (newly promoted) First Lieutenant Joseph M. Newell, Jr. Both of them were going to leave Fort Rucker for Fort Benning in the next couple of days; their transfers were official as of 1 January 1965. Jose Newell had been assigned to the Test and Support Directorate because Brigadier General William R. Roberts had convinced the Chief Signal Officer that he would be of more use there than he was at SCATSA, and Johnny was going to Fort Bragg. . . .
Bobby was staying on at Rucker so that he could be transitioned into fixed wing. After that he didn't know what was going to happen to him. But an era, clearly, was over. He was being separated from the best friends he had ever made in his life, and nothing would ever be the same again. Bobby didn't think much of his father's new aide. Goddamned stuffed shirt.
It was difficult for a second lieutenant to be stationed on a post where the commanding general had the same name. His peers were generally divided into two categories: those who thought getting. close to the General's son was dangerous, and those who thought they might somehow. be able to turn it to their advantage. Bobby was naive, but not a fool, and he knew that Johnny and Jose belonged to neither category. They were friends.
There were two tests of a friend, Bobby believed: Someone could do something for you that cost him. Or else he could do something for you when nothing was in it for him. Or both. The proof that Johnny Oliver was a friend had occurred several times, when he had done things "for Bobby even though he was General Bellmon's aide and not because of it-things (one in particular) that would have enraged the Old Man if he had ever found out. And although there was nothing that General Bellmon could do for Jose Newell, Jose had-as a friend-spent long and dull hours tutoring him on the intricacies of Instrument Flight Regulations and Procedures. If it hadn't been for Johnny and Jose, Bobby knew, he wouldn't be wearing wings, period.
Bobby realized that what he really admired in both of them, in Johnny more than Joe, but in both of them-was their self-confidence. They decided what was right and then they did it. Bobby privately thought that he was still thinking like a plebe: If a thing is not specifically permitted, it is prohibited. Johnny and Joe reversed that: If something isn't specifically proscribed, screw it, let's do it!
The Aviators Page 53