The Generals (27 page)

“So Bob spent long hours collecting dispositions about this officer’s bad attitude, and proving conclusively that he shouldn’t have been commissioned in the first place. And just when he had everything ready to bring the Duke before a Board of Officers, the Army sent him one more piece of paper for his file.”

“Which was?” Dorothy asked.

“On the recommendation of the Secretary of State, the Congress had just authorized the acceptance by a serving officer of a decoration from a foreign potentate. Bob had a thick file of depositions saying ‘subject officer clearly fails to demonstrate the characteristics required of an officer,’ you know what I mean, and here comes this medal from the King of Greece himself, saying the Duke’s performance in Greece made John Wayne look like a pansy.”

“So I couldn’t get him thrown out of the Army, worse luck,” General Bellmon said. “And here he is.”

“The really humiliating thing for Bob was to find out that the black guy, the one who rode around in the back seat with the Duke playing chauffeur, was not only a fine officer, but the son of an officer who was not only an old friend of both our families, but the man who had commanded the task force that rescued Bob from the Russians.”

“Phil Parker,” Lowell said. He looked at Dorothy Sims. “They’ve got him in a POW camp in ’Nam, too.”

He has nice eyes, Dorothy thought. And he’s not the fool he might have been as a young man. I was wrong, she decided. He is a nice man. The look in his eyes told her that despite the warning she had been given by Roxy, there was no way Duke Lowell would make a pass at her. Pity, she thought, a little ashamed.

“And it gets worse,” Barbara said. “Over Bob’s violent objections, we had the Duke for dinner with the Felters. The Duke and his wife. And thirty minutes after she was in the house, it comes out that her father and my father were old friends, and that Ilse’s father had commanded the POW camp where Bob and Mac were locked up.”

“Where’s your wife tonight, Colonel?” Dorothy heard herself asking.

“She was killed a long time ago in a car crash,” Lowell said, evenly.

God forgive me, I was glad to hear that!
Dorothy thought.

“Did I understand you to say Colonel Lowell’s wife’s father
commanded
their POW camp?” she asked.

“Then Colonel—now Lieutenant General—Count von Greiffenberg,” Bellmon said.

“One of the good Krauts,” MacMillan said.

He’s rich and he’s unattached. And I am thrilled with that idea. What the hell is the matter with me?

Tex Williams arrived with Colonel Meany, who was stationed at Pope, and whose presence surprised Dorothy. Tex was dressed Texan, even to cowboy boots and a Stetson. Not a cowboy hat. A hat Dorothy thought of as a Lyndon Johnson. They apologized for being late.

They took drinks from MacMillan, who was tending bar now, and then Colonel Meany led Felter to the far end of the lawn to speak in confidence. As they were talking, there was a sound of aircraft engines, an unfamiliar jet roar, and as Dorothy watched, Colonel Meany pointed toward the sky, and Dorothy turned to look where he pointed.

The sound was from an enormous airplane, a C-5A, and as Dorothy watched it drop through the skies toward Pope’s runways, she remembered just how huge they were. The C-5A could carry three Greyhound buses inside its cavernous fuselage, with lots of room left over.

C-5As were uncommon, even at Pope, and Dorothy was surprised when two more appeared in the failing light. She wondered what the connection was between Colonel Meany, Sandy Felter, and the C-5As.

She felt Craig Lowell’s eyes on her.

And felt her face flush.

The party broke up early. At home in bed she dreamed about him: She was naked in his bed when the door opened and Tom came in. Tom looked at her with contempt, so she pulled the sheet up tightly over her face and prodded Lowell with her fingers to wake him up. But for a long time, he just lay there. Finally he opened his eyes, got out of bed, and walked past Tom. Dorothy was afraid that Tom would hit him, but he didn’t. When he was past Tom, he turned and beckoned for her to come with him. And she did follow him. She dropped the bedsheet and walked past Tom and the pain and loathing in his eyes.

Dorothy was sweating when she woke up. The bedroom was stuffy. She kicked the clammy sheet off her legs, got out of bed, walked to the curtain and opened it, and then slid open the glass door to the tiny patio outside the bedroom.

It was cooler outside than it was in the house, and there was the smell of spring in the air. She crossed her arms over her chest. Noticing again the strange jet roar, she looked up into the sky. A C-5A was climbing out of Pope. One of those she had seen earlier, she concluded. She watched it disappear, and then saw that the other two she had seen earlier were also leaving. Shivering lightly, she went back into her bedroom.

(Three)
Fayetteville, North Carolina
1145 Hours, 11 June 1969

Dorothy Sims got up when the alarm went off, made the kids breakfast, and sent them off to school; and then, hating herself for it, she watched a soap opera. The picture was crystal clear, so clear that she could see where the makeup on the actor’s face left off at his hairline. Duke Lowell looked like an actor—but without the makeup. Of course, his tan hadn’t come out of a tube.

She suddenly got up and called the beauty parlor, and they had a vacancy. So she drove the four blocks to the shopping center and had a rinse, set, and facial, all of which made her feel good enough to consider buying herself a dress. She went into Haverty’s Department Store.

And there Lowell was in the Lawn & Garden Department. After a moment, she realized there was no way he could have known she would be there too. She walked over to him. He was in crisply pressed tropical worsteds, bent over a charcoal stove.

“Good afternoon, Colonel,” she said.

He straightened and looked at her, surprised and pleased.

“You’ve done something to your hair,” he said. “It’s different.”

“Thank you for noticing,” she said. “I just came from the beauty parlor.”

“I’m delighted to see you,” he said.

“Are you really? Why?” she replied.

“I’m sure you know more about these things than I do.” He gestured toward the charcoal stove; and she recalled his remark the night before about Mac’s charcoal stove, the cut-in-half fifty-five-gallon drum.

She looked at the stove more closely. It was enormous, of heavy cast-iron construction, with two adjustable firebeds and racks and all the options.

“You seem to have found the best one right off,” Dorothy said, after glancing at the others. The saleswoman, she imagined, had obviously decided that a colonel should be shown the most expensive model first.

“Good,” he said, clearly not eager to linger over a decision. “I’ll take it,” he said to the saleswoman.

The saleswoman got out her book and Lowell gave her the MacMillans’ name and quarters number at Fort Bragg.

“Have you got some kind of card I can put in it?” he asked.

“I’ll see if I can find one,” the saleswoman said. “With the tax, that comes to $369.65.” She seemed slightly afraid that the price would ruin the sale.

Lowell reached into his trousers pocket, spread a wad of bills with his thumb, shook his head, and then took out his wallet. From it he withdrew four one-hundred-dollar bills. He casually handed them over.

“Thank you very much,” the saleswoman said.

“That’s quite a gift,” Dorothy said.

“Mac and his wife have been very good to me for a long time,” he said. “I owe them that and more.”

There was nothing else for them to say, and they both knew it, but she didn’t want to leave.

“I haven’t had my lunch,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t had my breakfast, either. I wonder if you’d care to have a little lunch with me?”

I should now say that I’ve had my lunch, thank you just the same, and go buy a dress
.

“There’s a little place right next door,” Dorothy Sims said. “Mario’s. If you like Italian.”

“Anything but spaghetti,” he said, and smiled at her in a way that made her tremble.

The saleswoman returned with his change and a gift card in an envelope.

Dorothy watched what he wrote: “I should have sent this in Bad Nauheim. Thank You. CWL.”

He took her arm and then let go of it as if it burned.

Once they stepped inside Mario’s, it took a long moment for her eyes to adjust to the blackness. She thought that when she left, she would be blinded again by the sunlight.

They were shown to a small table.

“You’re a martini drinker, aren’t you?” he asked when the waiter appeared. So he had noticed at least that much. And he had noticed her hair, too. She didn’t want a martini, really, but she said nothing.

“A martini for the lady, please, and what kind of Scotch can I get?”

They had Johnny Walker Black. “Soda, in a large glass,” he instructed, and then opened the menu.

“Why didn’t you go to the PX?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“To buy the stove?”

“I suppose I should have,” he said. “But I think they probably wouldn’t have had a stove like that. There’s some sort of rule about price, I think. Anyway, I was here, and the impulse occurred simultaneously with the opportunity.”

“What
are
you doing here?” she asked.

“I’ve taken an apartment right around the corner,” he said. “With a lovely view of the shopping center parking lot.”

“I thought I heard them say you had been given the VIP suite in the Smokebomb Hill BOQ.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to sleep there,” he said. “I’m too old for beer brawls in BOQs. And besides, a colonel cramps lieutenants’ styles.”

He ordered shrimp scampi. And she took veal scallopini. Since the waiter said that would take a few extra minutes, he asked if Madame would like another cocktail.

She smiled and nodded. And immediately regretted it.

Lowell looked at her; she averted her eyes.

“This may not have been one of my better ideas,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have a certain reputation,” he said. “The facts are not as colorful as the reputation, but it’s the reputation I’m concerned about.”

“Roxy warned me about you,” she said. “If that’s what you mean. You’re not going to make a pass at me in here, are you, Colonel?”

“No, of course I’m not,” Lowell said. “But you’re liable to be seen with me. That would be enough, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t think anyone could see us in here,” she said. “I’m on the verge of asking for a flashlight.”

The second martini arrived and she sipped at it, aware that she could already feel the warmth from the first one sinking into her body.

“I’m a little disappointed,” she said, recklessly.

“How’s that?” he said, taking a swallow from his drink.

“Your certainty when you said, ‘No, of course I’m not.’”

“No offense intended,” he said, with a smile. “But despite popular rumor, I don’t make passes at ladies. And you are a lady.”

“Don’t be too sure,” she heard herself say, dropping her eyes. She had no idea what she was feeling.

After a long moment, he said: “Why did you say that?”

“I don’t know,” she said, faintly. “Please, pretend I didn’t.”

“A martini in the middle of the day,” he said. “Completely forgotten.”

“You sound relieved,” she heard herself say.

“I’m not a saint,” he said. “Disappointed and relieved. Both.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Women dislike being rejected.”

“No offer was made,” he said. “So there can be no rejection.” She didn’t reply, and after a moment, he added, “You have enough trouble without getting involved with me.”

The food was delivered. There was a split of white wine. Although she hadn’t asked for one, the waiter gave her a glass. But she nodded her head when he raised the bottle and poured.

“I like your friend Sharon,” she said.

“I frequently consider running Felter over with a truck so I could marry the widow,” he said.

“I’m half afraid you mean that,” she said.

“I do, I do,” he said. “That’s one hell of a woman.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I’ve seen her in action.”

His eyebrows raised in question, and she told him how she had met Sharon in the airport.

“You were in Washington about the POWs?” Lowell asked.

“I’m in charge of legislative liaison,” she said.

“Which means what?”

“That I can afford to spend a lot of time and money traveling,” she said.

“You made a point last night of letting me know you’re comfortable,” he said. “Why did you need to do that? And why again now?”

She felt her face flush.

She decided the truth was the best answer.

“After I had to learn if that Patek Philippe was real, I guess I wanted to make sure you knew…” She stopped. She didn’t know what else to say.

“You’re not the gold-digger type,” Lowell said. “I just thought you were nosy.”

“I was,” she said.

“I’m flattered,” he said.

She didn’t want to reply to that.

“Before I was married, I worked for our senator,” she said. “He finds it harder to say politician things to me than he would to somebody else.”

“As a general rule of thumb, I can’t stand politicians,” he said. “What did you do?”

“I’m a lawyer,” she said. “Tax law.”

“Really?” he asked. He was genuinely surprised. “Tax lawyers are my favorite people. If they’re good. Are you good?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was swept off my feet by a flier. What would you like to know about raising children and the PTA?”

“Well, from what Roxy said, you’re really the brains behind the POW wives.”

“You want to talk law?” she asked. “That whole war is illegal. The things the government is doing—or really not doing—about the POWs are generally illegal.”

She saw that she was making him uncomfortable.

“Did Roxy tell you that I am the difficult female who took the Defense Department to court and kept them from declaring a lot of the POWs legally dead?”

“I didn’t know it was you,” he said. “But I heard about that. One of my best friends is over there. His wife told me about that.”