The Generals (20 page)

“All right,” she said, “I’ll call your bluff.”

“Have I got a shirt to go with an OG uniform?” he asked.

“There’s two or three in the drawer,” she said. “In cellophane.”

“That’ll do it,” he said. “Just enough to see me through the first day. I can go the the PX and pick up what I need.”

“When are you going?” she asked.

“I’m on the four oh five Eastern flight from National,” he said. “Changing in Atlanta.” He looked at his watch. “I better get moving.”

He shrugged out of the stainless steel cable harness, took the revolver from his waistband, removed his trousers, hanging them neatly on a hanger; and then in his shirt, underwear, and socks, walked into the bathroom.

Sharon set the briefcase beside the bed and slid the clothing bag off the end onto the floor. She pulled the bedcover to the bottom and folded it neatly. Then she took off her clothes, and when she heard the sound of the shower, joined her husband in his bath.

(Two)

(Three)

Many of Sharon Felter’s neighbors knew that Sandy worked in the White House. That sort of secret was hard to keep along Kildar Street, where practically everybody worked for the federal government. And some worked for the CIA in McLean and were likely to see Sandy’s Volkswagen from time to time parked in Area “C” there. So it made no sense denying that Sandy worked in the White House and had a CIA “connection.”

Those neighbors who had been in the house and seen Karl Marx’s
Das Kapital
in German and Russian on the bookshelves had been able to put two and two together and conclude that Sandy was some kind of linguist, maybe the guy who was in charge of the Russian-and Chinese-language interpreters. This belief had been subtly encouraged. Sandy let it be known that he was a philologist by training. Once the mystery was solved, no further questions were asked. Everyone knew not to ask too many questions.

Colonel Sanford T. Felter, in fact, had been, under Dwight D. Eisenhower, John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson, and now Richard Milhous Nixon, a “Special Presidential Assistant.”

The notice of his appointment was typed on a small sheet of paper under the simple heading
THE WHITE HOUSE
and signed by the President. This notice resided in the personal safes of the Directors of the CIA, DIA, and FBI, the State Department’s Deputy Secretary for Intelligence and Security, the Attorney General, the Chief of Naval Intelligence, and the Army and Air Force Deputy Chiefs of Staff for Intelligence. Its text was brief:

Sharon
really
wanted to go to Bragg, maybe because that would take her away from Sandy’s high-powered and secret world. And take Sandy, too, for a time back into the world she felt he
really
belonged in—the Army. And she wanted to go because Fort Bragg was their first post together after they were married. Although she hadn’t wanted to admit it, she had known then that Sandy was never going to be a lawyer or a doctor or a college professor. Sandy, all five feet four and 128 pounds of him, wanted to be a soldier.

His mother and father, and her mother and father—and to tell the truth, Sharon herself—thought he was crazy. When Sandy had won a competitive examination for an appointment to West Point, they had agreed among themselves that that was a good thing because not only would it provide him with a free quality education, but it would keep him out of the war. He was in the class of 1946; the war would surely be over by then.

But Sandy had come across an obscure regulation that provided for the direct commissioning of linguists. Sandy spoke fluent Russian, Polish, and German, because the Felters and the Lavinskys spoke their native tongues at home; and he spoke French because he studied it and he soaked up languages like a blotter.

So, instead of staying at West Point where he could finish his education and be safe, Cadet Corporal Sanford T. Felter had been discharged from the Corps of Cadets for the purpose of accepting a commission as second lieutenant, Infantry (Detail: Military Intelligence [Linguist]). Which Sharon and both sets of parents thought was an act that was stark raving bonkers. Sharon heard later that he was sworn in at the Breakfast Formation. The Military Academy Band had played “Army Blue”
(“We say farewell to Kay-det gray
[crash of cymbals]
And don the Army blue
[crash of cymbals]”) and then “Dixie” (“
In Dixieland, I’ll take my stand
[crash of cymbals]
To live and die in Dixie
[crash of cymbals]”) as the Corps of Cadets marched off to ham and eggs.

He was on a plane two days later for Europe, where he was put in charge of interrogation of Germans taken prisoner by Major General Peterson K. Waterford’s “Hell’s Circus” Armored Division as it raced across Germany in the closing days of the war.

He was also in Task Force Parker, which had raced into eastern Germany to rescue General Waterford’s son-in-law, Lieutenant Colonel Bob Bellmon, from the “protective custody” of the Russian Army, who “liberated” him from a German POW camp.

She didn’t find out about that until much later.

What she expected when Sandy Felter came home with his ribbons and his first lieutenant’s silver bar and his Combat Infantry Badge was that
now
(for God’s sake) he would get out of the Army, continue his education, and maybe they could get married.

What happened was that he insisted on marriage right away. And not by their own rabbi (although Sandy politely invited him to the ceremony) but by the Jewish chaplain at West Point. Still, it was a nice ceremony. Outside the chapel, Sandy’s classmates—still cadets—formed a line and held swords over Sandy and Sharon as they came out of the chapel. Then the cadet colonel gave them both Class of 1946 rings. He didn’t know if he was entitled to by regulation, he said, but the class had taken a vote and wanted that, even if Sandy hadn’t actually graduated with his class.

After that he’d gone off and left her at home so he could go to parachute school at Fort Benning. That took three weeks. And then he went to Fort Bragg for Ranger training, and he called her up and told her to come down.

Sharon rode to Bragg on the train—through Baltimore and Washington and finally to Fayetteville, North Carolina—where the first thing she saw was a sign on the water fountain in the station that said
WHITE ONLY
.

Their first home had been half of the second floor of what had been a barrack at Fort Bragg. Sharon remembered it clearly, and wondered if that old barrack was still there. Maybe some young lieutenant and his wife were starting out together as she and Sandy had started out. It might be fun to look. Sharon realized she was glad Roxy MacMillan had called. She wanted to go back to Bragg.

They rode from Alexandria to Washington National Airport in the Dodge station wagon. Sharon really hated Sandy’s Volkswagen, and it seemed to hate her. It never failed him; but every time she got near it, pieces fell off. Or the engine died on some superhighway.

When Sandy saw that she had turned out of the
ARRIVING PASSENGER
lane into the
SHORT-TERM PARKING
lane, he looked at her with annoyance on his face.

“I’ll put you on the plane,” Sharon said.

What she really had to do was go to the bathroom. She decided that she had to do that even though she knew that Sandy didn’t like to have her waiting around airport terminals, particularly when he was carrying something.

He didn’t argue with her, though.

“I’ll meet you in the Admiral’s lounge,” he said, when she stopped the car and he was pulling his suitcase and the Montgomery Ward clothing bag out of the back seat.

She had been with him at the airport before when he had a case fastened to his body with a plastic-coated steel cable and a pistol stuck in the small of his back. She knew the drill. He would go to the nearest departing gate, catch the eye of the security officer, and show his identification. Sandy had a badge and a plastic card identifying him as a Deputy U.S. Marshal. These insured the cooperation of the security people, and kept them from asking the wrong kinds of questions.

When Sandy went through Passenger Checkout for his flight, the security officer would be there to pass him through the metal detector without comment.

Sandy had been made a member of the Admiral’s Club because he flew so much. It
was
a lot nicer than waiting with the crowd. There was a special lounge with plush furnishings and stewardesses serving drinks. There was also a telephone you could use for local calls free. He thought it was funny, being named an admiral, and he’d framed the certificate the airline sent him and hung it on the wall.

She parked the Dodge, and went into the Washington National terminal. The heat was something awful, and she was glad for the blast of cold air that struck her when the glass doors slid open.

She walked quickly to the Admiral’s Club on the second floor of the terminal and entered through a door marked only with a numeral. She had a card but she didn’t need it. “I’m meeting my husband,” she said to the girl at the door. The girl smiled and let her pass, and Sandy rose to meet her.

The nicest thing about the Admiral’s Club was the ladies’ room, which was not only spotless, but even provided a four-stool vanity where you could brush up.

Sharon was at the vanity when the door to the ladies’ room opened with such a bang that Sharon actually jumped with fright. It sounded like someone was trying to break in.

But it turned out to be two women, one of them sick. Sharon quickly closed her purse and stood up, while they made directly for one of the stalls. The sick one dropped her purse, and the contents scattered on the floor. As Sharon knelt to pick up the stuff from the purse, the sound of vomiting came from the booth.

When she picked up the woman’s leather wallet, she noticed in the plastic window a green plastic card, and—without trying to be nosy—saw that it identified the bearer as the dependent wife of somebody who was a LTCOL USAF. Sharon had a similar card, which said she was a dependent wife of a COL USA. While the sound of vomiting continued, the other woman left the booth and came to Sharon. She looked like a very nice person, Sharon decided, as she offered her the purse.

“My friend is sick,” the woman said, with a polite shrug.

“Is there anything I can do?” Sharon asked, but the woman shook her head.

“I’m an Army wife,” Sharon said. The implication was clear. We are a sorority, and one of our sisters needs help.

“She’s drunk,” the woman said. “Her husband is a POW in ’Nam.” That explained that.

“I’m so sorry,” Sharon said.

“She insisted on putting me on the plane,” the woman said. “And she just sat there in the bar and made an ass of herself, and now this.”

“I’m sorry for her,” Sharon said. But drinking wasn’t the answer. Sharon had never understood women drinking; oh, a glass of wine, and maybe even once in a while, a martini or something. But not getting sick drunk. Women lost their femininity when they drank too much. “That must be awful.”

“Maybe she’s got the right idea,” the woman said. “God knows, it might make things a lot easier.”

“Yours, too?” Sharon asked, but she had known the answer even before the woman nodded.

After the sound of vomiting stopped, and the woman returned to the cubicle to help her friend, Sharon followed her. They got the woman on her feet, helped her to the stools in front of the vanity, and washed off the stained front of her dress with moistened Kleenex.

“I’m shorry,” the woman said. “I’m truly shorry.”

“Oh, damn you, Karen,” the woman said. “Now I’m going to miss my plane.”

“Catch your plane,” Karen said, gesturing grandly. “I’m perfectly all right.”

“I’m just seeing my husband off,” Sharon said. “I can take care of her. Or I can try.”

“I’ve got two kids at home,” the woman said. “The oldest sixteen. If I miss this plane, I won’t be able to get home until tomorrow.”

“Let’s get some coffee in her,” Sharon said. “And an Alka-Seltzer.”

“I’m sho shorry,” the woman said, and started to sniffle. Then she saw Sharon. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just another officer’s lady,” Sharon said, with a little smile.

“Goddamn right,” the woman said.

“I can’t leave her like this,” the woman said.

“Your children are more important,” Sharon said, firmly. “And I can take care of her.”

“Goddamn it,” the woman said.

“I’ll see the stewardess and get some coffee and Alka-Seltzer,” Sharon said, and started for the door, but it opened before she got there and the hostess came inside.

“Mrs. Sand?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sharon said. Sandy never used his own name in public places.

“Your husband’s worried,” she said, her eyes running professionally over the drunken woman before the vanity. “The Atlanta flight has just been announced.”

“That’s mine,” the woman said.

“And you’re taking it,” Sharon insisted, taking the woman’s arm and pushing her toward the door. “I’ll be back in a moment to take care of her,” Sharon said to the hostess.