Brotherhood Of War: The Lieutenants Part 20

FOUR.

(One) Bad Nauheim, Germany 24 May 1946 The Army of Occupation, recognizing the need for personal vehicles, and unwilling to pay what it would cost to ship tens of thousands of civilian automobiles from the States, had run excess-to-needs jeeps through the Griesheim ordnance depot.

These were rebuilt to military specifications, except that the vehicles were painted black rather than olive-drab. They were sold to the post exchange for the cost of rebuilding $430, and resold to enlisted personnel who had expressed a desire to purchase such a vehicle for private transportation and who had been - lucky enough to have their name drawn from a drum usually employed for bingo games at the service club. Private Craig Lowell's first (and as it turned out, his last, visit to the service club had been to witness the raffle. His had been one of ten names drawn.

Private Craig Lowell, in a Cla.s.s "A" OD uniform, parked his black jeep behind division headquarters and met Captain Rudy MacMillan in the bas.e.m.e.nt coffee shop. MacMillan told "Good evening," Lowell said. He wondered how much of the exchange the Waterfords had heard. There were no signs that they had heard any of it except the last angry remark MacMillan had made.

"I understand that you're to be commissioned," Mrs. Waterford said. Congratulations. I think you'll make a fine officer."

He looked at her, wondering if she was simply being gracious, or whether she actually meant what she was saying.

"Thank you," he said.

A cut-in-half, fifty-five-gallon barrel on legs was carried onto the veranda by two German maids. Major General Peterson K. Waterford removed his tunic, his necktie, and rolled up his sleeves. He put on a large white ap.r.o.n, on the front of which was stenciled the face of a jolly chef in a chef's hat and the legend, CHIEF COOK AND BOTILEW ASHER. Next he built a charcoal fire, and then personally broiled steaks. While he was cooking, he drank several bottles of beer, from the neck.

The steaks were excellent, thick, charred on the outside and pink in the middle. Roxy MacMillan provided baked potatoes, a huge salad, and garlic bread.

They talked polo. MacMillan, who knew nothing about polo, had nothing to say, and this pleased Lowell.

What the f.u.c.k, Lowell thought, sometime during the evening. I will play polo, and I will get out of the army six months early, and in the meantime I will be an officer. What have I got to complain about?

(One) Bad Nauheim, Germany 24 May 1946 The Army of Occupation, recognizing the need for personal vehicles, and unwilling to pay what it would cost to ship tens of thousands of civilian automobiles from the States, had run excess-to-needs jeeps through the Griesheim ordnance depot.

These were rebuilt to military specifications, except that the vehicles were painted black rather than olive-drab. They were sold to the post exchange for the cost of rebuilding $430, and resold to enlisted personnel who had expressed a desire to purchase such a vehicle for private transportation and who had been lucky enough to have their name drawn from a drum usually employed for bingo games at the service club. Private Craig Lowell's first (and as it turned out, his last) visit to the service club had been to witness the raffle. His had been one of ten names drawn.

Private Craig Lowell, in a Cla.s.s "A" OD uniform, parked his black jeep behind division headquarters -and met Captain Rudy MacMillan in the bas.e.m.e.nt coffee shop. MacMillan told him to take off his Ike jacket. When Lowell had handed over his jacket, MacMillan laid it on the table, and unpinned the enlisted man's insignia (a U. S. and a representation of a World War I tank stamped on round bra.s.s discs) from the lapels. He reached out his hand and dropped them into Lowell's hand.

"Souvenir," he said. Then he ripped open small cardboard packages. He pinned small, unbacked, U.S. insignia to the upper lapels, a representation of a World War I tank to the lower lapels, and a single golden bar on the epaulets of the Ike jacket. He handed the jacket back to Lowell. By the time Lowell had shrugged into it, MacMillan had pinned a gold bar to the front of a gabardine overseas cap with officer's braid sewn along its seams.

He tossed Lowell's woolen enlisted man's overseas cap into the wastebasket.

"You won't need that anymore," he said. He handed Lowell the officer's cap. "You tuck that under your belt," he said.

"You do not tuck it in your epaulet."

"Yes, sir." He led Lowell back through the coffee shop, into a corridor, and to an elevator. They rode up to the fourth floor, walked down a hotel corridor, and came to a comer suite, converted into offices.

"Good morning, Sergeant," MacMillan said to a master sergeant behind a desk. "I believe Colonel Webster expects us."

"Oh, he expects you all right," the master sergeant said.

"You've really made his whole day with this, Captain."

"Yours not to reason why, Sergeant," MacMillan said. "Yours but to have everything all typed out."

"He called the general, you know," the sergeant said.

"I thought he might," MacMillan said. "I'm sure that the general rea.s.sured the colonel of Lowell's splendid, all-around qualifications to become an officer." The sergeant looked at Lowell with amused contempt. He shook his head, then picked up the telephone.

f.u.c.k you, Lowell thought. Fifteen minutes from now, you will have to call me "sir."

"Captain MacMillan is here, Colonel," he said. There was a reply. "Yes, sir."

He hung up the telephone.

"I gather the colonel is composing himself," he said, wryly.

"He said to get everything signed."

MacMillan nodded. The sergeant got up. "You'd better sit down," he said to Lowell. "There's a lot of paperwork." He handed Lowell a pen and handed him the first of an inch-thick stack of forms, each of which had to be signed.

Lowell's fingers actually became cramped before he was finished, and by the time he was done, his signature, never very legible, had deteriorated into a scrawl.

There was a five-minute wait after all the papers had been, signed. The sergeant major and MacMillan discussed someone Lowell had never heard of, an old friend from long ago. The telephone, rang.

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said. He listened. "Yes, SIR," he repeated, and hung up the telephone.

"Gentlemen," he said, "the colonel will see you now." He stood up and held open the door.

Lowell marched into the large room on MacMillan's heels.

When MacMillan stopped, he stopped. When MacMillan saluted, he saluted.

"Good morning, Colonel," MacMillan said. The colonel ignored him.

"You are Craig W. Lowell?" the colonel said to Lowell.

"Yes, sir."

There was a look of utter loathing in the colonel's eyes. He hadn't liked it when the army had directly commissioned engineers, transportation experts, college professors, and other professionals in War II. He was furious with the idea of this young pup being made an officer simply because General Waterford wanted to play polo with him.

"I thank you for your opinion, Colonel," the general had said, when he telephoned him to protest. "But I want him commissioned."

Colonel Webster, a portly, dignified man, stood up.

"Come to attention," he said. "Raise your right hand and repeat after me: 'I, your name. . .

"I, Craig W. Lowell. . ."

"Do solemnly swear, or affirm. . ."

"Do solemnly swear, or affirm," Lowell parroted, "that I will defend and protect the Const.i.tution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to them; that I will obey all orders of the President of the United States and the officers appointed over me, according. to the regulations and the Uniform Code of Justice; and that I will faithfully discharge the duties of the office which I am about to a.s.sume. So help me, G.o.d."

The colonel lowered his hand. With infinite contempt, he said, "Congratulations, Lieutenant, you are now a member of the officer corps of the United States Army. You are dismissed."

MacMillan saluted, and Craig Lowell saluted. They performed an about-face. They started to march out of the office.

"I'm going to have your a.s.s for this, MacMillan," the colonel said.

MacMillan did not respond. They marched out of the outer office and went back down the corridor to the elevator.

MacMillan didn't say a word until they were back in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"The general," he said, "will be free about 1430. Adjust your schedule accordingly."

"Yes, sir," Lowell said.

"Until you get your feet on the ground, I suggest you keep your a.s.s out of the line of fire," MacMillan said.

Lowell nodded his understanding.

"Don't look so G.o.dd.a.m.n scared," MacMillan said. "You're a survivor. You'll be able to handle this with no sweat." Lowell nodded his head, because he knew MacMillan expected him to. In point of fact, however, he was not scared.

Colonel Webster was obviously furious that he had been commissioned, and obviously held him in contempt; but Webster understood that Lowell hadn't had any more choice in the matter than he did. MacMillan's a.s.s was in the line of fire, not his.

As he walked across the parking lot to his jeep, a technical sergeant threw him a crisp salute, and barked, "Good morning, sir." Second Lieutenant Lowell retumed the salute.

"How are you today, Sergeant?" he said.

I'll be a son of a b.i.t.c.h, he thought. I did that splendidly.

When Lowell drove back to the stable, climbed the stairs to his rooms, and pushed open the door, the bed had been stripped of sheets. When he opened his wall locker, it was empty. He turned around in confusion and found himself facing Ludwig, the groom, who was smiling broadly.

"I have taken the liberty of having the lieutenant's luggage packed and sent to the bachelor officer's hotel," Ludwig said to him. The lieutenant will find his boots and breeches in the officer's locker room."

"The word got around quickly, didn't it?" Lowell asked.

"Will the lieutenant accept the best wishes for a long and distinguished career from a former Rittmeister of the 17th Westphalian Cavalry?"

"Is that what you were, Ludwig?" Lowell asked.

Ludwig nodded.

"Well, thank you," Lowell said. "But I'm afraid my 'long and distinguished career' is liable to end as quickly as it began. When, for example, the French ride all over us."

"I think you're going to do very well," Ludwig said. "The ponies are coming along very well. And they're eighty percent of the game."

"You've played, haven't you?" Lowell asked, with sudden insight.

"Yes," Ludwig said. "And one day, perhaps, l will be able to play again." He was trying, Lowell realized, to sound more cheerful than he felt.

"For G.o.d's sake, don't let the general hear you say that," Lowell said, "or you'll wind up as a second lieutenant."

"I would be happy to be a second lieutenant," Ludwig said.

"That sounds so much better than Unterwachtmeister "

"What the h.e.l.l is that?"

"I have been accepted by the Grenzpolizei, the border police, as an Unterwachtmeister. The same thing as a PFC."

"I don't understand that," Lowell said. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm a soldier, as you are a soldier, Lieutenant," Ludwig said. "For me it was either the French Foreign Legion or the border police. The Legion is full of n.a.z.is, so it's the border police."

"You're wrong about that, Ludwig. I'm no soldier."

Ludwig smiled at him, shook his head, then nodded. "Yes, you are," he said. "And I would suspect that in time "you'll be a very good one." Lowell changed the subject. Ludwig's compliment embarra.s.sed him. Not for himself, because the notion that he would become a good officer was absurd, but for Ludwig, who had been a bonafide officer in a losing army, and was now reduced to a stable boy paying outrageous compliments to a nineteen year old.

"You're quitting? When?"

"I will stay until after you play the French," he said. "I would like very much to see my team beat the French." He held open the door, and bowed Lowell through it, half mockingly.

None of the other players said anything when Lowell walked into the locker room, to change into riding clothes except to nod h.e.l.lo. If the Germans already knew of the change in his official status, Lowell thought, certainly the officers must know.

They don't want to b.u.m their fingers, Lowell thought, by getting too close to the fire.

MacMillan is probably right, he thought, as he pulled on his boots. I am a survivor. He thought about what Ludwig had said about his being a soldier, and in time a very good soldier.

It was a compliment, very flattering. And a blivet, which is defined as five pounds of horses.h.i.t in a one pound bag.

He walked out of the locker room and to his string.

"Guten Morgen, Herr Leutnant," the exercise boy said, smiling from ear to ear as he gave him a hand up on the chestnut mare.

(Two) It was a brilliant, splendid spring day, ideal for polo, and they played until eleven, saving the better ponies for the afternoon session when the general would play. There were three polo players, Lowell. decided: the general, Fat Charley, and Private Lowell. The others played at polo, and there was a difference.

He smiled. He corrected himself. The three polo players were the general, Fat Charley, and Lieutenant Lowell. He wondered why he had not just been equipped with a gold bar when it was time to play the French, and told to behave like an officer. On the surface, that would seem to be a lot simpler solution to the problem. Probably, Lowell decided, it was another example of contorted military ethics. Falsely identifying him as a commissioned officer and gentleman would not be gentlemanly; hanging a commission on him when he was wholly unqualified to be an officer was something else. There was no question, now that he thought about it, that he was in fact an officer. All those papers he had signed, and Colonel Webster's unconcealed rage as he had administered that ,very impressive oath, left no doubt.

Fat Charley, sweat-soaked, red-faced, finally called the session off. Lowell had just scored a goal, and was at the opposite end of the field from the grooms and the three-quarter-ton truck on which the Veterinary Corps officer and his troops, and the troops with the towels and the ice water, waited and watched.

Lowell rested his mallet over his shoulder and started down the field at a walk.

Fat Charley cantered up to him, turned, and rode beside him.

"Nice shot, Lowell," he said.

"Luck," Lowell said, modestly, although it had been, in fact, a d.a.m.ned good shot, a full stroke at the gallop that had connected squarely and sent the ball through the goalposts like a bullet.

"Could I catch a ride to lunch with you?" Fat Charley asked.

"I've got to stop by my office a moment."

"Certainly, sir," Lowell said. Fat Charley, Lowell had learned by eavesdropping on his fellow polo players, had been with General Waterford in the war. He was an armor officer.

But he had been detailed to the Corps of Military Police, and was the Constabulary's provost marshal. The idea was that he would become provost marshal general, which called for a major general. There was no way the establishment was going to let some a.s.shole cop commissioned from civilian life be named a general officer.