Brotherhood Of War: The Lieutenants Part 43

"Van Fleet did a superb job with the c.r.a.p they sent him," Lowell replied, matter-of-factly.

"General Van Fleet, you mean, Lieutenant," the lieutenant colonel snapped, before he was shushed by his wife.

"Big Jim," Lowell said, agreeably, helping himself to more brandy. "That Van Fleet. Superb officer."

"I would be interested in your a.s.sessment of the line, Lieutenant," the Colonel, Bob's boss, said. If Lowell was good enough for Porky Waterford, perhaps he had made too hasty a judgment of him. After all, the boy did get that fancy medal and was married to the daughter of a German officer who was an old friend of Waterford's.

"I don't think so," Lowell said, pleasantly.

Lowell let the chair fall forward onto its four legs. He drained his brandy gla.s.s and stood up. Barbara exchanged glances with Bob. There was nothing that could be done now except pray.

"There were, as I see it, two major errors in the way we handled Greece," Lowell began, now dead serious. "The first was that we tried to superimpose our ideas and our organization on theirs. We simply presume that we know all there is to know about organization and that everybody else is doing it wrong. Bulls.h.i.t.

"The second error, which compounded the first, was in the selection of officers. I was rather typical of the officers we sent over there. I was absolutely unqualified, and I wasn't alone.

We had a-motley collection of incompetents other people were happy to get rid of. We had the failures, the ignorant, and the cowardly."

"See here, Lowell!" one of the guests protested.

"By the time I left," Lowell went on, undaunted, "and I wasn't there long, we had gotten rid of most of the incompetents. They had been shipped home, sometimes in a box or put to work counting rations, or shot for cowardice. Or, as in my case, somehow learned their job by doing it."

"Wisdom from the mouth of a babe," one of the colonels said.

"What did he say about getting shot for cowardice?" a wife asked in a loud whisper.

"The next time you gentlemen mount an operation like that," Lowell went on, "I respectfully suggest that you send your best officers, not your worst, officers whose knowledge of warfare goes beyond the field manuals." They were glowering at him.

"In what way?"

What did he say about getting shot for cowardice?" a wife said in a loud whisper. It is not the position of a second lieutenant to publicly challenge the conduct of a military operation.

Mimicking a lecturer at the Armor School, Lowell said, I will now entertain questions until the end of the cla.s.s period." There was absolute silence for thirty seconds. Then the Colonel, ice in his voice, said: "I can't let that comment about cowardice go unchallenged. On what do you base that allegation? You're not speaking from personal knowledge?"

"Yes, sir, I am," Lowell said.

"You felt someone was a coward? Is that what you're saying?" You suspected someone was a coward," Lowell said. "Another officer was forced to make that judgment."

"In: what way?" 1n order to complete his mission, the officer to whom I refer-a West Pointer, by the way-felt it necessary to remove his cowardly commanding officer. Who was also, come to think of it, a West Pointer."

"What do you mean, remove?"

"He cut him down with a Thompson is what I mean, Colonel," Lowell said, very simply.

"I think," Lt. Co!. Bellmon said, after a long moment in which he decided that Lowell was telling the truth and that the situation was about to get out of control, "that we should have a nightcap on the porch, gentlemen." Later that night, sleeping on the fold-down bed in the living room of Lowell's apartment" Sharon softly asked Sandy if what Lowell had said about one officer shooting, murdering, another officer in cold blood was true.

"Yes, it was," the Mouse said. "But I don't think Craig did himself any good by telling those officers that story. Those things happen, honey, but you just, don't talk about them." He had a mental image of the Thompson bucking in his hands, of Captain Watson tumbling down the mountainside.

Sandy Felter suddenly rolled on his side and grabbed Sharon and pulled her to him, and despite her protests that they would wake the baby and Craig and Ilse and that she didn't want to, not here. he took her. He had never done anything like that before, and he was ashamed of himself, even if Sharon, afterward, thought it was kind of funny and teased him about not drinking any more brandy.

(Ten) Shortly after the dinner at Lt. Col. Robert Bellmon's quarters, Second Lieutenant Craig W. Lowell was transferred from the Tank Gunnery Division of the Armor school to the U.S. Army Armor Board. The Board, which was on, but not subordinate to, Fort Knox, was the agency which tested new tanks and other armored force vehicles.

Lowell was now viewed by the establishment at Fort Knox in a different light. He was no longer a smart-a.s.s guardhouse lawyer who'd managed to somehow w.a.n.gle a commission and had thereafter thumbed his nose at the army. Despite his indiscreet remarks at the Bellmons' party, he was a young man from a very prominent family whose potential had been recognized by no one less than Porky Waterford himself. In addition, he was married to the daughter of a German aristocrat who had been a colonel and an old friend of Waterford.

And Porky's judgment about the boy's potential had certainly been vindicated. The medal the Greeks had given him was the second highest one they awarded. It was understandable that a young man who had commanded a company in combat would tend to be a little bored with Basic Officer's Course and would say things he really shouldn't have said. Under the circ.u.mstances, it certainly spoke well for him that he had done so well in Basic Officer's Course, graduating third, with a 98.4 grade average.

Bellmon had a little chat about Lowell with Colonel Kenneth J. McLean, president of the Armor Board. McLean had not been at the dinner at which Lowell had made the speech, but he had been in North Africa with General Waterford. Colonel McLean said he could always use a bright young buck like that. The commanding general approved the transfer.

Lowell was a.s.signed as an a.s.sistant project officer on the high-velocity tube project for the M26. The original of, which was to eventually replace the M4A4 as the standard tank, had come with a 75 mm cannon. The army had learned a healthy respect for the German 88 mm cannon, and a U.S. army high-velocity tank tube was designed and manufactured, was now under test by the Armor Board. If successful, it would make the M16 the most powerfully armed tank in the testing was rather simple in nature. The tube was fired in all possible conditions to see what broke. At that point ordinance engineers, military and civilian, came up with a fix.

Three M26 tanks, each under a lieutenant and crewed by senior noncoms, were under the general supervision of a lieutenant colonel, who handled the engineering and the other paperwork. Lowell became one of the three lieutenants.

The other lieutenants had heard that the president of the school had requested Lowell's transfer from the school. That spoke well of him. So far as the noncoms were concerned, a second john with a CIB who had been an enlisted man was not your standard candy-a.s.s shavetail, and Lowell's subsequent behavior (no chickens.h.i.t) and performance (that sonofab.i.t.c.h really knows how to fire a tube) confirmed their judgment of him.

The officers' ladies of the Armor Board, having heard that Colonel McLean had requested Lowell's transfer from the school, and having seen Mrs. Lowell together with Mrs. Bellmon at the commissary and at lunch with her in the officer's club concluded that Ilse Lowell was the exception that proved the rule about frauleins; and they went out of their way to welcome her to Board social activities, Lowell himself was delighted with his new duties. The M26s he'd been firing at the school had had to be treated with the best care to prevent breakdowns. During their four-week tour of instruction, each tank crew in training had fired precisely thirty-two rounds of 75 mm ammunition. It was incredibly expensive and tough on the tube itself, and every round had to count. The absolute reverse was true at the Board. He and his crew picked up a tank at the maintenance building in the morning, drove the sonofab.i.t.c.h as fast as it would go out to the firing ranges and the torture-rack testing area, and then fired as many (sometimes twice as many) rounds in a day as he had fired in the whole four-week course at the school.

One of their problems was the necessity to constantly replace the M4 tank hulks and the worn-out trucks used for targets.

They literally blew them into little pieces.

For lunch, they would pile into jeeps and three-quarter-ton trucks and drive five miles through the woods to the Fort Knox Rod and Gun Club for hamburgers and beer. There they'd fill out the forms that Testing Evaluation Division gave them to gain data on the M26A2 (90 mm high-velocity tube).

They were generally finished for the day at half past two or a-quarter to three; and by half past four, Lowell had returned to his apartment. He took a shower, played with P.P., maybe fooled around with IIse a little, and then they went together to the commissary or the PX, and maybe took in a movie. P.P.

was a good baby. You could take him to the movies, and you never heard a peep out of him.

Craig actually looked forward with regret to his coming release from active duty, at the completion of his two years of commissioned service. He had to get out, of course. For one thing, it made absolutely no sense to stay in, If he stayed, they wouldn't let him stay at the Board. They'd send his a.s.s overseas and make him officer in charge of counting mess kits or some- thing. He wasn't even sure he could have stayed if he wanted to. The army was cutting back on the number of reserve officers on active duty. The only way to stay was to go regular army; and to do that, you needed a college degree.

What he had, he realized, was a very pleasant way to spend the last six months of his service. He should be, and was, grateful for that.

On a Thursday afternoon, when he had about two months to go, Colonel McLean was waiting for him at the door of the cavernous maintenance building, when he came barrel-a.s.sing back to the bam from a day on the range.

He signaled the driver to stop when McLean put up his hand. He climbed down from the turret and signaled for the driver to go park the beast.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said to Colonel Mclean. McLean put his hand on his arm.

"There's been some bad news for you, Craig," McLean said. "Your grandfather's pa.s.sed on. Your cousin Porter Craig telephoned." It wasn't like the school where those chickens.h.i.t b.a.s.t.a.r.ds wouldn't even let him go to New York to meet IIse. By the time he got back to the bam, the Board had really taken care of him. He had leave orders and reservations on the plane.

Mrs. McLean was in the apartment, IIse had their bags packed, and all he had to do was take a shower and get dressed and go town and get in the colonel's car. That way he wouldn't have to worry about his car while he was gone. "Let us know when you're coming back, and we'll have somebody to meet you." Mrs. McLean insisted on going into the airport with them, carrying the plastic bag filled with diapers and stuff for P.P. that Ilse normally carried over her shoulder.

"Yor have reservations," he said. "Two, round trip to New York. The name is Lowell."

"Oh, Craig, I didn't think about money!" IIse said. Mrs. McLean started to open her purse.

Lowell handed over his Air Travel card.

"First cla.s.s," he said to the reservations clerk.

IIse wanted to say something; but with Mrs. McLean there, she didn't.

"Do, you have enough cash, Craig?" Mrs. McLean asked.

"I've got enough for a cab," he said. "That's all I'll need." Then he decided to h.e.l.l with that, too. Truth time.

When he had the tickets, and knew when they would be in New York, he walked to a pay phone and called Broadlawns, Connecticut.

Porter Craig finally came to the phone. He wondered what Porter was doing there. Was his mother on the sauce again was the Old Man dead?

I'm leaving Louisville in about ten minutes, Porter," he said. "We get in at nine twenty. Will you have somebody meet Her?"

"Why don't you just take a cab?" Porter said. "The house is full of people."

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Porter, send a car and a chauffeur," he snipped. "Nine twenty. Eastern Airlines Flight 522." He hung up. He saw the look in Mrs. McLean's eyes and the bafflement in Ilse's.

P.P. acted up on the plane, probably sensing that something was wrong. All he wanted to do was be cradled in silence; every time that Ilse started to talk, to ask questions, he started to fuss. Lowell was grateful. He didn't want to explain anything. He would explain afterward.

A chauffeur in gray livery was waiting at LaGuardia when the DC-6 landed.

"I've got to change him," Ilse said, as the chauffeur walked up to them.

"Lieutenant Lowell?" he asked, touching his cap.

"Is there somewhere Mrs. Lowell can change my son?" Lowell asked him.

Ilse looked at the chauffeur in confusion, in disbelief.

"Yes, sir," the chauffeur said. "If you'll follow me." On the second floor of the terminal building, the chauffeur pushed open an unmarked door. Inside was a private lounge. There was a stewardess or somebody behind a desk. When she saw the young officer walk in, she stood up.

"May I help you, Lieutenant?" she asked, barring his way.

"This is Mr. Craig Lowell," the chauffeur said. The hostess looked at him. "Mr. Geoffrey Craig's grandson," the chauffeur said.

"Oh, please come in," the hostess said, "And this is Mrs. Lowell?"

"Mrs. Lowell has to change our son," Craig said.

"Right this way, Mrs. Lowell," the hostess said, and took Ilse's arm and led her away. Ilse looked actually frightened, Craig thought.

Lowell handed the chauffeur the baggage checks.

"The car is at entrance three, sir," the chauffeur said.

"Would you like to meet me there? Or should I come back?"

"I'll meet you there." There was a bar in the VIP lounge.

Craig ordered a double scotch and drank it neat.

The limousine was a Chrysler LeBaron with a stretched body. Craig wondered idly who it belonged to.

Ilse didn't ask questions on the way to Broadlawns. P.P. had upchucked, she said, and he had a fever. But when they pa.s.sed inside the gate at Broadlawns, she asked where they were.

"They call this place 'Broadlawns", he said. "My mother lives here."

There were a half dozen cars on the circular drive before the house. Most of them were limousines, with their chauffeurs chatting in a group off to one side. When they walked up to the door, it was opened for them by the West Indian butler.

"Good evening, Mr. Lowell," he said. "Madam. The family is in the drawing room." The family and some other vaguely remembered faces were scattered around the drawing room; but the center of attention was his mother, who was sitting on a couch facing the door to the foyer.

When she looked at him, he saw that she was drunk.

"Craig," she said, getting unsteadily to her feet, "Pop-Pop is gone." The she saw Ilse standing behind him holding P.P. A look of confusion, of bafflement, clouded her face.

"I don't believe. . ." she began.

"Mother, this is Ilse," Craig said. "The baby is Peter-Paul. He's your grandson."

"I don't understand," his mother said, plaintively.

"My G.o.d!" Porter Craig said.

"This is my wife, Mother," Craig said. "And our son."

"But you never said anything," his mother said. She walked unsteadily over to Ilse and stared frankly at her.

"I'm sorry about your father, Mrs.... Mrs. . .." Ilse could not remember the name of the man Craig had told her his mother had married.

"You're foreign," Mrs. Andre Pretier accused.

"Ilse is German, Mother," Craig said.

"Yes, I can see she is," his mother said. She turned to face him. "How dare you? How could you do this to me?"

"For Christ's sake!" Craig said.

P.P. struggled, turned, and threw up what looked like a solid stream of vomitus that splashed on the carpet.

"My G.o.d!" Porter Craig said.

"Andre!" his mother shrieked, turning around to look desperately for her husband. When she located him, she screamed, do something."

"What, darling, would you like to have me do?"

"Get that G.o.dd.a.m.ned woman and her squalling brat out of my house!" she screamed, and then ran into the corridor and up the stairs.

"Craig," Porter Craig said, "you really could have handled this whole thing better."

"When I want your f.u.c.king advice, Porter," Craig exploded, "I'll ask for it."

"Craig!" Ilse said. "I want to go."