The Hunting Trip (7 page)

“You're welcome, Pop.”

“I do have one question, Philip, about your orders.”

“Sir?”

“That three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar clothing allowance. What's that all about?”

Phil told him.

“And how long are you going to be in Berlin?”

“I enlisted for two years. I've got about seventeen months left to go.”

“That's outrageous!” the elder Williams said indignantly. “How the hell does the Army expect you to spend seventeen months in Berlin with only a sports jacket and a pair of slacks—well, maybe two pair, one wool, one khaki—to wear?”

“I thought I would go to Brooks Brothers in the morning, Pop, to see what they might have on sale.”

“Tomorrow, my boy, we will go to J. Press—I thought you understood, God knows I've told you this often enough, that J. Press serves gentlemen and Brooks Brothers the less fortunate others—we will go to J. Press and get you enough clothing to spend seventeen months in Berlin.”

“Yes, sir.”

“On my nickel, of course, in the hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me for what I thought—
My God, what's it going to cost me to keep him out of Leavenworth?
—when you came home just now.”

On the tenth day of his son's delay-en-route-leave, P. Wallingford Williams, Jr., loaded CPL Williams Philip W. III—and the three leather suitcases containing the corporal's new wardrobe—into a taxicab on Park Avenue and waved goodbye as Phil headed for Idlewild and the Pan American Flight to Frankfurt.

III

OL' PHIL'S FIRST GRAND EUROPEAN TOUR

[ ONE ]

22-26 Beerenstrasse

Zehlendorf, Berlin, Germany

Monday, May 5, 1947

T
he black Volkswagen Beetle drove through Zehlendorf, which looked to Phil very much like South Orange, New Jersey—that is to say, the part of South Orange where his mother lived with lots of big houses with lawns, not downtown South Orange by the Delaware, Lackawanna & Western railroad commuter station, which was sort of lower-middle-class in ambience—and then through a set of twelve-foot-high cast-iron gates that opened at their approach.

Inside, Phil saw a rather large three-story building before which were parked seven Volkswagens essentially identical to the one in which he was riding. Phil, who had paid attention during the classes in Techniques of Observation he had been subjected to at Fort Holabird
while in training, quickly saw that, while on casual observation the Volkswagens were essentially identical, upon closer examination the eye trained to be alert for details could see that they were not.

One of the VWs was painted olive-drab green all over, including the bumpers, and on the bumpers had been stenciled some numbers and letters, including the legend
U.S. Army
. The others were of various colors, including one that was startlingly purple.

And they had different license plates. Two had large, egg-shaped plates with black numbers and letters on a white background. Both plates had the letter
B
followed by numbers on them. Phil thought the
B
might have something to do with Berlin. One of them, which was dark blue in color, had an American-shaped white license plate with the legend
US GOVT
above its numbers. The remaining four Beetles also had white plates and numbers, but their legend read
US of AMERICA
.

“Here we are,” the driver of the Volkswagen said, as he pulled to a stop beside its cousins.

The driver, a large young man in civilian attire—a corduroy jacket and khaki pants—was not very loquacious.

When Phil had been claiming his luggage at the airfield, which was called Tempelhof, the driver had walked up to him and inquired, “Williams, P.?”

When Phil had replied in the affirmative, the driver had picked up one of Phil's suitcases, announced, “I've got the
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driver duty,” and motioned for Phil to follow him.

The driver assisted Phil with his luggage, carrying his suitcases into the foyer of the building. Once there, he pointed to a door, put the suitcase on the floor, and walked back outside.

Phil went to the door and knocked.

“Come.”

Phil went inside.

A heavyset man in his early thirties in a gray flannel suit rose to his feet from behind a desk.

“Williams, P.?” the man inquired.

“Yes, sir.”

The man examined him carefully.

“You have made a good first impression, Williams. The last three replacements Holabird sent us were sartorial disasters. One of them was actually wearing cowboy boots and blue jeans, and another a baseball cap with the brim turned sideways.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“I'm the first sergeant, Williams. As I'm sure you know, first sergeants are not addressed as ‘sir.' I am also a CIC special agent. You may therefore call me, at your option, either ‘Special Agent Dumbrowski' or ‘Mr. Dumbrowski.'”

“Yes, Mr. Dumbrowski.”

“I am now going to send you in to meet Supervisory Special Agent O'Reilly, who commands the Thirty-third CIC Detachment. He likes to become personally acquainted with all newcomers.

“But before I actually do that, CIC Administrator Williams, there are certain things I wish to bring to your attention. First, Supervisory Special Agent William O'Reilly is a lieutenant colonel of Infantry, pay grade O-5. He is also a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point. With me so far?”

“Yes, Mr. Dumbrowski.”

“Now, I am sure in your previous uniformed service you were trained in, and, it is to be hoped, became proficient in practicing the protocol one follows when first meeting one's new commanding officer, to wit: The newcomer marches into the commander's office, stops four feet—no more, no less—from the commanding officer's
desk, where he comes to attention, salutes, and says, ‘Sir, STATE NAME AND RANK reporting to the commanding officer for duty, sir.' You are familiar with this protocol?”

“Yes, Mr. Dumbrowski.”

“Good. Now we are not required here in the Thirty-third to follow this protocol, because we are in civilian attire, and one does not salute when so attired. Nor are we required to use the term ‘sir' when addressing another member of the CIC family, even if we are aware that the individual is a commissioned officer.

“Having said that, CIC Administrator Williams, I suggest that when Supervisory Special Agent O'Reilly gives you permission to enter his office, you march into his office, stop four feet—no more, no less—from his desk, come to attention, and without saluting, repeat, without saluting, say, ‘Sir, CIC Administrator Williams reporting to the supervisory special agent in charge for duty, sir.' Can you remember that?”

“I thought you said we're not supposed to say ‘sir.'”

“If memory serves, and mine invariably does, the word I used was ‘required.' Supervisory Special Agent O'Reilly has told me on several occasions that rather than taking offense as he does when one of his peers refers to him as ‘Bill,' when someone calls him ‘sir,' it warms the cockles of his Irish heart as it reminds him of his happy days as an upperclassman in the West Point Corps of Cadets tormenting plebes.” He paused, then added, “Clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Dumbrowski.”

Dumbrowski walked to an interior door, knocked on it, opened it a crack, and announced, “Mr. O'Reilly, sir, newly arrived CIC Administrator Williams is here and requests audience.”

“Send him in.”

Phil entered the office, went through the routine previously
described, and found himself looking at Lieutenant Colonel William O'Reilly, who wore a red crew cut above a freckled face. He was about five feet four in height and appeared to weigh somewhere in the 125- to 135-pound body weight range.

“You may relax,” the colonel, who was in civilian attire, said.

Phil decided this was the CIC version of At Ease and relaxed.

The colonel stared at him intently.

“I have been going over the final report of your complete background investigation, Williams. It has been my experience that when one wishes to learn all there is to know about an individual, one is wise to do so. Reading yours makes me suspect that whoever assigned you here is either grossly incompetent or had been drinking.

“According to your FRCBI, your secondary education ended with your expulsion from Saint Malachi's School, at which time you had completed two years and some months of your secondary education. Is this true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Phrased another way, you do not have a high school diploma?”

“Yes, sir. Correct.”

“The FRCBI also states that you were expelled from Saint Malachi's School for moral turpitude, but does not go into the details of such turpitude. Would you care to share them with me?”

“No, sir.”

“Do it anyway.”

Phil related his transgression with regard to the intimate undergarments of Miss Bridget O'Malley.

“I have to tell you, Williams, that even having the acquaintance of another former student of Saint Malachi's School and knowing the depths of depravity to which he frequently sinks, I consider the humiliation of a nice Irish Catholic girl by a teenaged Protestant sexual
deviate, such as you obviously are, absolutely indefensible. And I warn you sternly herewith that if you pull anything like that while assigned to the Thirty-third CIC, you will rue the day you did.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Phil went through the protocol of leaving an officer's presence when dismissed—except for the rendering of the hand salute—and left Lieutenant Colonel William “Don't Call Me Bill” O'Reilly's office.

“What happens now?” he asked Special Agent/First Sergeant Dumbrowski.

“Well, once we get you settled in your room, you will commence ROTPIP.”

What the
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is rot pip? Sounds painful.

“Rot pip, Mr. Dumbrowski?”

Dumbrowski nodded.

“Required Orientation Training Program for Incoming Personnel. On your completion of that you will be assigned to CIC administrator duties. Any other questions?”

“I couldn't help but notice that,” Phil said, pointing to a wall-mounted cabinet that held a dozen Thompson submachine guns. “What are they for?”

“This will be covered in some detail during your ROTPIP, Williams, but briefly, those are Caliber .45 M1A1 Thompson submachine guns. They are used to shoot people. I'm surprised you didn't know that.”

“I meant, what are they used for here?”

“That will also be covered during your ROTPIP, but to satisfy your frankly unwelcome premature curiosity, I will tell you that certain highly trained members of the Thirty-third are sometimes called upon to carry such weapons during the exchange of spies—the
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Russians return to us the innocent Americans the
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East Germans have arrested on absolutely unfounded accusations that they are spies and we return to them the
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Russian spies we have bagged.

“In this connection, not for dissemination, of course, most of the
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Russian spies we have bagged have been bagged by our own—the Thirty-third's own—Supervisory Special Agent Jonathan Caldwell the Third, who is, again not for dissemination, one
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, not only
vis-à-vis
the
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Russians but also with regard to his fellows in the Thirty-third who do not measure up to his high standards.

“But I digress. The exchange of spies takes place in the center of the Glienicke Bridge, which spans the Havel River, which is the border between the West—specifically the Wannsee district of Berlin—and the East—specifically the city of Potsdam, which is the capital of Brandenburg. Six or more men of the Thirty-third go to the bridge armed with, and carrying spare fifty-round magazines for, the Thompsons on my wall to ensure that the
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Russians don't do anything they are not supposed to during the exchange procedure.

“But I wouldn't bother your innocent seventeen-year-old head with this, Administrator Williams, as it will be a long, long time before you are allowed anywhere near Supervisory Special Agent Caldwell, who handles the spy exchange, the Glienicke Bridge, or a Caliber .45 M1A1 Thompson submachine gun.

“Perhaps especially the latter. I myself, as difficult as it may be for you to believe, had a great deal of difficulty qualifying with the Thompson. Despite the apparent ease with which the gangsters and heroes wield the weapon in the movies, in real life the Thompson is a
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. It kicks like a
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mule, for one thing, and, unless one tightly buttons one's shirt, has a nasty habit of
ejecting hot brass cartridge casings into open necks, whereupon they burn one's chest and tummy as they drop to one's testicles. I speak from painful experience when I say that having one's jockey shorts filled with a dozen or so just-ejected .45 cartridge cases causes unbelievable
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discomfort.”

Phil took a deep breath and decided that honesty required him to go on.

“First Sergeant, what would you say if I told you I'm an Expert Marksman with the Caliber .45 M1A1 Thompson submachine gun?”

Dumbrowski considered his reply before giving it.

“I would say,” he said finally, “that you have been smoking funny cigarettes, because even as dumb as you look, I don't think you'd be dumb enough, unless flying high on the fumes of a controlled substance, to try to lay such incredible
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on your first sergeant.”