The Captains (32 page)

“Jiggs is right,” the little general said.

“You need an aide,” the corps commander went on. “Presuming the chemistry is all right, would you be interested in him?”

“What do you think, Jiggs?” the little major general asked.

“I think Major Lowell would make the general a very fine aide-de-camp, sir.”

“OK,” the corps commander said. “I've just done my Solomon act for today. You two may go.”

“How soon do I get him?” the small major general asked.

“Today, sir, if you like,” Jiggs said. “Colonel Minor has been very efficient in sending me his replacement.”

“One more thing,” the small major general said. “Knowing you, Jiggs, I just have to ask. Is he housebroken?”

“Not only that, sir, but he can read and write. He wrote, for example, our battalion motto.”

The little general laughed. “If that's going to go in the history books, you're going to have to have it translated into Latin. The general and I were talking about that last night. It belongs at C&GS, of course, as a morale booster. But how are you going to put it in the manual?”

“Cooperation with the 73rd Tank Battalion is expected and anticipated,” Colonel Jiggs said. “Our disappointment will be manifested by the violent insertion of a sports implement into the anal orifice.”

“Good to see you, Jiggs,” the little general said, chuckling. “Come on up and have dinner sometime.” He looked at the corps commander and got silent approval to leave.

Jiggs came to attention.

“Thank you, general,” he said.

“OK, Jiggs,” the corps commander said, “I hope you're satisfied.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you very much,” Jiggs said, and saluted and walked out of the general's office.

Well, you win some and you lose some. That was about a tie, Colonel Minor thought.

(One)
Kwandae-Ri, North Korea
18 August 1951

“E.Z., I hate to speak to you like a battalion commander to an overzealous shavetail,” the Supreme Commander, United Nations Command said to the commanding general of the United States XIX Corps (Group). “But you are obviously in need of guidance.”

“With all due respect, sir, has the Supreme Commander ever heard of the phrase, ‘the blind guiding the blind'?” Lieutenant General. E. Z. Black replied.

“When the last Supreme Commander gave the faintest hint that something would please him….”

“With all due and profound respect, sir, you ain't the last Supreme Commander.”

“
His
subordinate commanders fell all over themselves,” the Supreme Commander went on, “in the eagerness to make him happy. This is known in some circles as ‘cheerful and willing obedience to the lawful orders of a superior officer.'”

“Will you settle for ‘senior' officer?” the XIX Corps (Group) commander asked, innocently.

“If you understand that that's an order, I will,” the Supreme Commander said.

They were sitting alone at the fieldstone bar of the general officer's mess of XIX Corps (Group), a room known as the Jade Room after the XIX Corps' radio code name, Jade. They were drinking, neat, 24-year-old Ambassador scotch, brought to Korea by the Supreme Commander, United Nations Command.

“I've only been here a couple of months, Matt,” Lieutenant General E. Z. Black said. “It's not time for me to take an R&R.”

“A couple is two,” the UN Commander said. “You've been here four. During which time you have put in eighteen-hour days, seven days a week. And you're not, although you sometimes act like one, a twenty-three-year-old cavalry lieutenant any more.”

“Woman works from sun to sun, but a gen'rul's work is never done,” General Black said.

“I don't know why the hell I'm arguing with you,” the Supreme Commander said. “Now, whether you want to accept it as your due for breaking your ass straightening out XIX Corps in half the time I thought it would take you—and I mean that, E. Z., you've done a hell of a job—or the concern of an old friend who doesn't want you dropping dead of a heart attack brought on by overwork, you
will
take seven days rest and recuperation leave in connection with TDY to Tokyo. This is an order.”

General Black sipped at his scotch, then raised his glass to the Supreme Commander, giving in.

“The troops call it ‘I&I,'” he said. “For ‘Intercourse and Intoxication.' I'm a little old for that.”

“As Georgie Patton once said, ‘A soldier who won't fuck, won't fight,'” the Supreme Commander said.

“That wasn't Georgie, that was Phil Sheridan,” the XIX Corps commander said.

“You have reservations at the Imperial Hotel for seven days, starting next Friday.”

“Why then?”

“Because that's the soonest Marilyn could get over here,” the UN Commander said.

“Marilyn's coming over?” General Black asked. Marilyn was Mrs. Black.

“I called her up. And told her I felt duty bound to report that word had reached me you were carousing with Oriental ladies.”

“You're capable of that, you bastard,” the XIX Corps commander said.

“And since Marilyn is flying halfway around the world to save her marriage, the least you can do is show up at the Imperial, sober, shaven, and wearing a smile.”

“It'll cost a fortune to fly her way out here,” E. Z. Black said.

“You cheap sonofabitch,” the Supreme Commander said. “You've got more money than Carter has liver pills.”

“I don't know how well this is going to sit with the troops,” E. Z. Black said. “They don't get their wives to come out here.”

“They're not lieutenant generals, either. For Christ's sake, E. Z., they like that sort of thing.
Their
general is supposed to be somebody special, to do special things. About the only way you can tell a general officer from a PFC these days is because the general is usually older and fatter.”

“It smacks of special privilege,” E. Z. Black insisted. “It
is
special privilege.”

“Let me worry about that,” the UN Commander said, and his voice showed impatience. “If you weren't rich, E. Z., you wouldn't think twice about it. You lean so far over backward, you're always falling on your ass.”

“OK, OK,” General Black said. “You win.”

“Your Supreme Commander may not always be right, but he's always your Supreme Commander,” the UN Commander said. He looked at his watch. “Time, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant General E. Z. Black said. The intimate conversation between friends was over. It was the responsibility of the XIX Corps (Group) commander to insure that the schedule of the visiting United Nations Commander was followed. He didn't even finish the inch of 24-year-old scotch in his glass.

“Finley!” he called, and in a moment a full bird colonel wearing the insignia of an aide-de-camp to a three-star general stuck his head into the Jade Room.

“Anytime, General,” Colonel Finley said.

The two general officers put on their headgear—a helmet with a taut sandbag cover in the case of the XIX Corps commander, a stiffly starched fatigue cap for the UN Commander—checked to see that their buttons were buttoned and that the gold buckles of their special general officer's leather pistol belts were properly centered on the bellies, then walked out of the Jade Room.

A platoon from each battalion of the units assigned to XIX Corps (Group) were lined up on one side of the small parade ground between the rows of prefabricated tropical buildings. Each platoon had the national colors, and there was a sea of divisional and regimental flags and company guidons. Before the assembled troops was a three-cannon battery of 105 mm howitzers.

The moment the two general officers appeared before the headquarters's quonset huts, the band began to play. First “ruffles and flourishes” and then “The Star Spangled Banner.” When that was over, the cannons fired, fifteen rounds, the prescribed tribute to a four-star general officer.

Then both general officers climbed into a glistening jeep, which bore a four-star plate on both bumpers. Steel railings permitted both of them to stand up. The jeep started off, followed by a half dozen other jeeps containing lesser officers. As they reached the assembled troops, an order was shouted, and all the flags except for the national emblem dipped in respect. Both general officers saluted, holding the salute as the jeeps slowly passed before the troops and dipped colors.

At the end of the line, they completed their salute, and then sat down and drove across the oiled dirt road to the XIX Corps (Group) airstrip where an Air Force C-47 sat waiting.

The aircraft had already been loaded with the baggage of the visiting party. All that remained now was for them to board the plane. The last to board was the UN Commander. He returned the salute of the XIX Corps commander, made a final personal remark (“Marge'll want to have you and Marilyn to dinner, of course”), and then got on the airplane. The door closed, and the engine starters began to whine.

The XIX Corps commander's jeep driver looked at General Black for instructions.

“We'll wait until they get off the ground,” the XIX Corps commander said, as he lowered himself into the front seat.

The C-47 got its engines going and taxied down to the far end of the runway.

The XIX Corps commander suddenly had a crisp and clear image of his wife. He could almost smell her, could almost feel the softness of her breasts against him, see her still shapely legs flashing under her skirt, see her (it still excited him, after all these years) rubbing her breasts when she took off her brassiere.

The C-47's engines roared, and it came racing down the runway toward them.

It had been General E. Z. Black's intention to stand in the jeep and render a final hand salute as the C-47 passed over them. That was now quite impossible. If the XIX Corps commander stood up, it would be immedately obvious to the two dozen or more senior officers and enlisted men standing near him that their commander had a hard-on.

Sitting down, the XIX Corps commander waved an informal farewell to the United Nations Commander.

(Two)
Tokyo, Japan
24 August 1951

The 1941 Cadillac limousine (which had been MacArthur's) picked up Lieutenant General E. Z. Black at the Imperial Hotel a few minutes after the UN Commander's personal car, a Buick, had picked up Mrs. Black to deliver her to the UN Commander's quarters for cocktails with the headquarters ladies.

It drove him to the Dai Ichi Building, where an MP who must have been six feet six opened the door for him. A bird colonel, one of the UNC's aides, saluted and smiled and escorted him into the building, through the lobby, and into an elevator.

They rode to the third floor, and then walked down a corridor to a conference room. There were chairs at the enormous table for thirty people, but there were only a handful in the room. Someone called “attention” when E. Z. Black walked in the room, which told him that the UNC wasn't here yet.

“Rest,” E. Z. Black said. He identified, as well as he could, the people in the room. The only two he recognized were the UNC's G-2 and a colonel, whose name for the life of him he could not recall, but whom he recognized as a spook, an army officer on sort of permanent TDY to the CIA.

Then he remembered the name: Hanrahan. He had met Hanrahan at a party at Jim Van Fleet's quarters in Washington. He had been introduced as a civilian, but Van Fleet had quietly informed Black that Hanrahan had been one of his people in Greece and was one of the officers the army had sent over to the CIA. A good man, Van Fleet had told him. For Jim Van Fleet, that was a compliment of the highest order.

Black walked over to him.

“Hello, Red,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”

“I'm flattered the general remembers me,” Hanrahan said.

“I see you've reenlisted,” Black said. He wanted Hanrahan to know that he knew.

There was also a captain, a little Jew, who wore a CIB and parachutist's wings and the crossed rifles of infantry.

“Why don't you sit down, General?” the aide-de-camp said. “I'm sure the general will be along in a moment.”

An interior door opened, and the UN Commander walked in. Everyone came to attention without formal order.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” the UNC said, and took a seat at the head of the table. “Howard, get us some coffee, and then secure the place,” he ordered.

A master sergeant, who had apparently been waiting outside, rolled in a tray with a silver coffee service, and then left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Do we all know each other? Hanrahan, have you met General Black?”

“I know Colonel Hanrahan, General,” Black said.

“And do you know Captain Feldman?” the UN Commander asked.

“It's Felter, sir,” the captain said. “How do you do, General?”

Captain Felter was wearing a ring. General Black took a good look at it when Felter crossed the room to shake his hand. I'll be goddamned, he's a ring-knocker, E. Z. Black thought. Will wonders never cease?

“Before I turn this over to Colonel Hanrahan,” the UN Commander said, “I want to officially announce this meeting is classifed Top Secret/Mulberry. Everyone present is so cleared.”

What the hell is “Mulberry”? General Black wondered.

Hanrahan got to his feet. “To get right to the heart of the matter, General Black, I'm afraid we're going to take one of your assets away from you.”

“What asset is that?”

“The 8045th Signal Detachment,” Hanrahan said.

General Black had to think a moment before he could identify the 8045th Signal Detachment. His troop list, the list of units assigned to XIX Corps (group), filled three single-spaced typewritten pages, everything from the “40 US Inf Division” through the 8807th Ordnance Ammo Bn” to the “8656th Signal Pigeon Platoon.” He was finally able to sort out the 8045th Signal Detachment as the outfit where he had cached Mac MacMillan. They were the people over on the East Coast at Socho-Ri, the radio relay outfit also charged with supporting a South Korean intelligence operation of some sort.

After he had been over there about a month, flying an L-20 “Beaver” back and forth between the Jade CP and the East Coast, MacMillan had asked that he be assigned to them rather than to headquarters. They needed an old soldier assigned to them, Mac had said, one who knew how to deal (the General had read “scrounge”) with Eighth Army and Korean Communications Zone (KCZ) supply depots on their behalf. They were doing a hell of a lot, MacMillan had said, with very little; and with adequate supplies, they could really earn their pay.

He had given in. There had been repercussions to his “Captain MacMillan has been assigned essential noncombatant duties” TWX, and it would be better if he were able to honestly say that MacMillan was assigned to some unimportant rear area Signal Corps unit, rather than to XIX Corps (Group) Headquarters.