Once an Eagle (56 page)

“Sam received the country's highest decoration,” Marilyn informed her guests. “The Medal of Honor. And several others, I believe.”

“Is that right?” Headley inquired. “What did you get it for? Invent a new filing system for the seventh and eighth carbon copies?”

Damon watched the shiny round face, the broad, thin smile. “Nothing as intellectual as that,” he said quietly.

Headley's face sobered; apparently he realized he'd gone too far. “No, really? What was it for?”

“An action near the Marne.”

“Oh, blow your own horn a little, Sam,” Tommy protested. Her face was flushed with holiday gaiety and the wine; she was wearing the sky blue dress she'd bought in Columbus before they'd left Benning, and she looked slender and young and vivacious beside the other women. “You're so
reticent!
” To the others she said, “He rescued some of his men that had been captured by the Germans, and attacked two machinegun positions and took them single-handed; and then he repulsed a counterattack by a whole company of German infantry and held the position until the regiment came up and recovered the lost ground.”

The women gave exclamations of uneasiness and wonder. Headley said: “That fellow York captured a whole battalion, didn't he?”

“Sam's unit was fighting a crack Prussian regiment,” Tommy said, and her eyes glinted in the candlelight. “Sergeant York's exploit was carried out against reserve troops.”

There was a little silence. Damon smiled to himself: well, there was old Butch Batchelder's loyalty from the bottom up, all right. Aloud he said, “Anyway, it was long ago and far away.”

“Amen to that,” Nickerson agreed; there was laughter and the conversation ran along again. Damon saw Tommy's eyes flash at him once in rebuke, but it was true: what difference did it make? This Headley was a fatuous clown, that was all.

“George—that's my sister's husband, Tommy's father—told us Sam was the ablest officer ever to serve under him,” Marilyn offered.

“What else could he say?” Tommy retorted gaily; she'd recovered herself in a trice. “He couldn't very well admit I'd made a mistake, could he?”

“Is that so?” Edgar was looking at Damon with sudden interest. “But you're a lieutenant, aren't you?”

“First lieutenant,” Tommy said. “And very senior.”

“That doesn't seem right—you'd think the Army would brush off some of the barnacles and reward individual initiative, the way business does. Look at Hank Farwell—he was a clerk at Macomber fourteen years ago. Now he's a vice president, making better than twelve thousand. It beats me how you can put up with it—the sheer waste of talent, of ability …”

Presently the women rose and went into the living room. Edgar got out the brandy and a box of cigars and the talk turned again to business, but this time their own. The factory Downing owned made containers of all kinds, for food and toys and utensils; there was much discussion about the merits of a new machine that had recently been installed.

“I want you to come down to the plant and see it, Sam,” Downing told him. “Does everything in one operation—surfacing, cutting, folding, gluing. One continuous process. It's a dandy.”

“I'd like to see it, Mr. Downing.”

Downing waved one of his chunky hands above his head. “Oh come on, call me Ed. Let's not have any of that Army formality.” He grinned. “There's no rank around here, you know.”

Damon smiled back, but made no reply. No, they didn't wear bars or leaves on their collars, they didn't rise at mess or stand to for officers' call; but there was certainly rank here. He kept out of the conversation, listening, intent, studying the four men. Forst was fat and voluble and eager to please; Headley was waspish and shrewd—a clown with a purpose, relying on charm. Nickerson was the interesting one: a tall, bony man, silent, a bit dour, given to pessimistic reflections. Tommy had told him a little about Nickerson; his father had been wealthy, with his own firm, then had lost it in the panic of 1907—which might account for the scornful reticence of the son, his faintly injured air. But he was solid; he would gripe and drag his feet on the little things, but in the pinches he would be the best of the four. Freer of self-deception than the other three, he would see the important thing and battle for it. Damon bit at his thumb, amused at the course of his thoughts—that compulsive Army habit of reading men as though you were about to lead them in battle …

“I still say the problem lies with shipping,” Nickerson was saying now.

“Oh, I wouldn't want to stir up Karl over nothing, Bill,” Headley replied.

“It isn't over nothing.”

“Besides, what would you find out if you did? My God, that place is a labyrinth. One of my kids was fooling around down there Saturday and got lost, and I had to practically call out the fire department.”

They talked on, and Damon listened. A decade of training manuals and classes and the brusque tutelage of men like Marshall and Stilwell and Bradley had taught him to cut through extraneous detail to the heart of a thing; and surfeited with food and drink and the long day's drive he watched the night sky beyond the long windows and entertained himself by trying to analyze the problem.

Part of the trouble was that they had only one eye on the plant. The other was on the stock market, where the big money was being made, in an atmosphere of risk and excitement and vanity he could only guess at. They were constantly taking trains east, they were on the phone to their New York brokers; their minds were on Wall Street, and Erie was running a very poor second. The talk was desultory, and at cross-purposes. Nickerson harped on the loss of customers' firms, Downing on the expense entailed in reshipments; Headley and Forst defended the yard and talked of rail foul-ups and confusion in the office. Sam gathered it was a question of organization, of timing; but there was something else the matter, something he couldn't quite put his finger on …

“This must be pretty damned dull for you, Sam,” Downing said all at once. “Having to sit and listen to all this.”

“Not at all. It's very interesting.”

Nickerson snorted, and Edgar laughed and said, “Your father-in-law would say we haven't gone to the heart of the problem. I can just hear him. Simply a matter of studying all the factors involved and taking the most effective course. Or—what's that other phrase he likes?”

“Bringing the proper point of leverage to bear,” Headley supplied with his thin smile. Forst laughed, and even Nickerson gave a sardonic grin. This made Damon angry. George Caldwell wouldn't fumble around for half an hour talking about everything but the point at issue, he thought; where do you get off, making fun of him? But he held his temper.

Downing must have seen something in his eyes, however, for he leaned forward over his elbows. “All kidding aside, Sam, how would you handle something like this in the Army?”

Damon set down his glass. “Well, I'm probably talking out of turn—God knows I don't know anything about business methods and problems. But we once had a situation pretty much like this in France in terms of priorities—which I gather are the main issue here. Why not treat it like a combat loading problem? work up a set of stencils with priority symbols—a yellow triangle for top priority, say; then a red diamond for second, and a blue shield for third. With line numbers above and number of parcels for that particular shipment below. And the railway people would treat them accordingly.”

“You don't know the lot crew, Sam,” Headley interposed. “You'd never get Karl Preis to adopt any newfangled scheme involving colored cartoon pictures, even if it would solve the problem. I can tell you that.”

“I'm not so sure,” Downing said. “Why shouldn't he go for it?” The others were silent but Damon could feel their disapproval. A peacetime soldier telling
them
what to do with their plant?
Nerve
of the guy. But there was also something else—that sense he'd had earlier that there was a missing piece to the puzzle.

“Why couldn't we do that?” Edgar demanded. “I like it. Sweet and simple. Just what we need—cut through some of the fuzz around the place.”

“Karl won't like it, Ed,” Nickerson said.

“Maybe he won't.” Downing puffed hard at his cigar. “Maybe it's time everybody stopped worrying so everlastingly about Karl Preis.” He hitched himself around in his chair. “Say, how'd you like to come to work for us, Sam? Tomorrow morning. I mean it. Be a hell of a lot more fun than sitting on your fanny at the beach all day long.” He pulled at his cigar again, his eyes glinting. “I don't image a young fellow like you would want to lie around like a drone for the better part of two months.”

Damon finished lighting a cigarette. Edgar's face was genial, ruddy from all the alcohol, but his eyes held that bright measured gleam he remembered from Mr. Thornton, from Congressman Bullen, Colonel Weyburn, Colonel Howden. It was the look that meant:
All of life is a series of bargains; I am power—and my wishes, my suggestions and speculations are not without their own aura of authority.
Oh yes; there was rank here, all right. It was the way the world was; he had learned that early and well. Watching Downing's eyes, the impatient, restless hands, he understood. It was a deal; this was in return for the use of the caretaker's cottage.

And there was something else that pressed for recognition. He remembered the night of the fracas with Batchelder at Benning, and later in their bedroom Tommy's question:
Are you afraid, Sam?
A born competitor, constitutionally unable to resist a direct challenge from any quarter, he wanted to do this—he wanted to show her he could make a go of it in a civilian job, no matter how difficult or thorny it might be. Then too, the extra money, whatever it came to, would be handy. It would give them a little leeway.

“Why, I'd be glad to go to work for you,” he said. “If you feel I can be of any help.”

“Good,” Downing said, and slapped the table. “That's what I like—a man who can make up his mind fast. Who knows what he wants.” He glared at Nickerson. “There's too damn many milksops and mollycoddles around these days.”

They talked a while longer, and then Marilyn came in and broke it up. Back at the cottage Tommy threw herself on the wide double bed and flung both arms out. “Now this is more like it, Sam.” She crowed softly. “Now why can't the blessed Army match this?”

“It will—when I'm post commandant,” he said. “Uncle Edgar is post commandant here.”

Looking up she made a face at him. “This is—not—a—post,” she declared. “It's heaven on Lake Erie, and we're here! No demands, no obligations. Sam, kiss me thunderously.” He complied. “Oh, this is going to be ambrosial!” She rolled over on top of him, her hands locked around his neck. “I feel as if school's out. Reform school, that is … Sam, tomorrow let's go down to the lake and picnic. Just lie around all day and swim and eat. Marilyn says there's a lovely little point that's all grassy and secluded.”

Damon drew a breath. “Afraid I can't do that, honey. You take the kids down and I'll join you later on.”

“Why not?”

“I've got to get up early. I'm going to work at the plant.”

She let go his neck and bounced to a sitting position. “You're kidding!”

“Not at all. Starting tomorrow I'm employed as troubleshooter in the logistics section, which appears to be in a bit of a snarl.” Briefly he told her about it.

“But Sam—that's ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “We're here on
vacation
… what's he paying you?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know—!” A curious look came into her eyes. “Why did you take it?”

“A lot of reasons. We can use the money. And we're their guests, you know. He suggested it.”

She waved one hand in distress. “But this isn't the Army—a suggestion doesn't constitute a
command
…”

He smiled at her. “Well. It does and it doesn't. We do owe the Downings something for all this lakeside luxury. And he asked for my help. Besides,” he went on, “it won't have to cramp our vacation much. You and the kids will have the lake and the tennis court. I'll be home every evening; and we'll have the weekends together.”

She dropped her eyes, and he knew what she was thinking: If he did well, if the salary he got was a good one—and it probably would be—he might be tempted to resign from the service and stay on here, to move up in this heady world of business; the children could go to private school, and soon they'd have a house like this on the Lake, with gardens and smoothly cropped lawns and a new Packard standing on the drive. All the comforts. Hanging his trousers neatly on a hanger he bit his lips. Was he being fair to her? He didn't know. He honestly didn't. All he knew was that he had to do it.

 

The men came
out of the sheds casually, watching him—the quick, covert, faintly defiant glance men give when they've been corking off. Damon knew it well enough—he'd done it himself on occasion. There would be a coffeepot on a hot plate in a cleared space among the crates and cartons, and a few tins of doughnuts or pastry, and some battered magazines. But this was 8:30 in the morning.

The last man out was big, and run to fat, with a round, chinless face and shrewd little brown eyes that crinkled jovially as he smiled. He called: “Hi there, Art. What's on your mind this fine morning?”

“Hello, Karl,” Headley said. “You're looking very chipper.”

“It's my bouncing personality, Art—that's what you're seeing.” He laughed, eying Damon. “Who's your friend here?”

“Karl, I'd like you to meet Sam Damon. Sam, Karl Preis.” They shook hands. “Karl's been running the lot here for more years than most of us care to remember.”