The Captains (37 page)

“Does the chief of staff have the corps commander's permission to look, sir?”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Harrier,” the general said, and laughed again. “Just keep those boobs away from me.”

“Yes, sir,” Harrier said.

General Harrier took a pencil from his pocket and bent over the sheet of teletype paper.

“Action: SGS,” he wrote. “Maj Lowell. Harrier.” He held the teletype in the air, and the commo sergeant came and took it from his hands. Major Lowell was the junior field-grade officer among the six aides-de-camp. Junior officers get the dirty jobs.

Christ, knowing Lowell, General Harrier thought, he was liable to wind up getting his hands on the magnificent boobs of Miss Georgia Paige. She really had a gorgeous set. General Harrier had seen her picture on the posters announcing the coming of Wayne Baxley and his Orchestra. He wasn't that old.

It had been a flip, irreverent thought. And then he had a somewhat sobering thought: Maybe a woman was what Lowell needed. Lowell had never taken an R&R. He'd been in Korea since he'd returned from the compassionate leave he'd taken right after his wife had been killed. Was it “devotion to duty,” an unwillingness to leave his duties? Harrier didn't think so. It was probably that he was afraid he was going to lose control. He was holding it all in. He couldn't do that forever. Maybe he could get himself laid.

Bullshit. These people didn't come over here to fuck the troops. They come to entertain them, and to get their names in the papers.

The odds against Major Craig Lowell, or any soldier, getting into the pants of Georgia Paige, or any of the other women in the Wayne Baxley Troupe, were probably precisely the same as they would be if they paid a ticket to see them in the Paramount Theater in New York. On the order of two million-to-one.

(Three)
Kwandae-Ri, North Korea
30 August 1951

When Lieutenant General E. Z. Black walked out of his office into the office of the Secretary of the General Staff of the United States XIX Corps (Group), he found that officer, a thirty-five-year-old major, having words with another officer who looked just about old enough to be a lieutenant, despite the gold major's leaf on his fatigue jacket collar.

That aroused General Black's curiosity, as did the fact that the young major wore a nonstandard holster with a German Luger in it. And then, when the SGS saw General Black and shut off the conversation and got to his feet, and the young major came to attention, he saw that he was wearing some very interesting insignia, the two-starred aide-de-camp's insignia on the other collar point, and the triangular armored force insignia with the numerals 73 where the armored division number was supposed to go.

“Go on,” General Black said, “I can wait. Take care of the major.”

“Sir,” the SGS said, “I just informed the major that we have no Major MacMillan here.”

“And?” General Black said.

“And I asked the major if he was inquiring on behalf of General Harrier, and he tells me he's inquiring personally.”

“What do you want with MacMillan, Major?” General Black asked.

“He's an old friend, sir,” Lowell said. “I was under the impression he was your aide, sir.”

“He was,” General Black said. “But I'm afraid he's not available. I can get word to him, if you'd like, that you were here to see him.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lowell said. “It's not important. I just happened to be here and thought I'd take a chance and try to look him up.”

“Is General Harrier coming here?” General Black said.

“No, sir. Not that I know.”

“You just came to see Mac, is that it?”

“No, sir. I'm here about the USO troupe.”

The young major was obviously less than thrilled about being baby-sitter to the movie stars. Understandable. He was a tank officer.

“How long were you with the 73rd Heavy Tank?” General Black said.

“About eleven months,” the young major said.

“Then you were in on Task Force Lowell?”

“Yes, sir,” the young major said, with a funny kind of a smile.

“Well, when you go home,” General Black said, “you can remember that, and forget the USO baby-sitting.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have the advantage of me,” General Black said. “You know my name, but I don't know yours.” He put out his hand.

“Lowell, sir,” he said.

“You're Lowell?” General Black said. “That Lowell?”

“Yes, sir. I had the task force, if that's what you mean.”

“What are you doing as a dog robber?” General Black asked.

“I've got a couple of months to go before I rotate, sir. And when they sent in a qualified S-3, Colonel Jiggs found a home for me.”

“And now you're baby-sitting the USO? Jesus Christ!”

Lowell didn't say anything.

“I gather you're not tied up with them now?” General Black asked.

“No, sir. I've got a transportation truck company due here by 1800, to move the troupe baggage. The air force is going to pick up the movie stars at 0745 tomorrow.”

“In that case, you've got time for a cup of coffee?” General Black said. “I read that after-action report. You gave a lot of people fits using M24s as supply guards, and armored trucks to take the point.”

“I hope I didn't give you a fit, sir.”

“Hell, no,” Black said. “The way to use armor is to hit as hard as you can with the most you've got, not telegraph your punches.”

He threw a stack of papers to the SGS.

“See if you can keep people from bothering me for the next forty-five minutes or so,” he said to the SGS, and then he motioned Major Lowell into his office ahead of him.

General Black was bored. If they wouldn't give him an armored force to command, and since he was too old, anyhow, to command a tank force in a classic cavalry maneuver, the next best thing was to do it vicariously. He wanted to talk to this young officer, full of piss and vinegar, who had proved pretty goddamned clearly that there was still a place for cavalry and a balls-to-the-leather attitude in the age of nuclear warfare.

“You can either have coffee, Major,” Lt. General Black said, “or a belt of this.” He held up his last bottle of 24-year-old Ambassador scotch.

“I think the booze, sir,” Major Lowell said.

“I was afraid you'd say that,” General Black said. “The most dangerous place in the world to be is between a bottle of booze and a thirsty cavalryman.”

He poured Lowell three inches in a glass.

“Christ,” he said, “from what I read in the after-action report, I'd have really liked to have been along on that operation. Tell me, Major, where did those armored trucks—what did you call them, ‘Wasps'?—come from?”

Lowell sat down without being asked to, sipped on the general's splendid scotch, and told him about the Wasps and Task Force Lowell.

(Four)

When Miss Georgia Paige saw the blond young major enter the XIX Corps (Group) general officer's mess with the corps commander himself, it confirmed the feeling she had had in their first, ninety-second encounter: This was somebody special.

He had reported to Colonel Dannelly, the troupe escort officer, during lunch. He had looked at her long enough, Georgia thought, to be disappointed to see that she wasn't brassiereless under her khaki shirt. That was the first thing they all checked to see. That no-bra business had been a stroke of pure genius on the part of Tony Ricco, her press agent. It had even gotten her on the cover of
Life
long before her career had reached the point where
Life
would have paid any attention to her at all, much less put her on the cover.

It had been a little embarrassing when Tony had called to her in front of all those people in the studio to blow on the nipples so they'd stand up, but that had been what really made that photograph take off when they handed it out to the press, and then used it in the advertising. The
New York Times
and the
Chicago Tribune
wouldn't use the picture without airbrushing the nipples sticking up under the shirt, but Tony had gotten press mileage out of that, too.

Georgia was aware that her nipples were the first thing men thought of when they saw her. The good-looking young major had been no different from the others about that, but there was something different about him. Maybe because after he'd looked and saw that she was wearing a bra, he had just stopped paying attention to her.

He even refused Colonel Dannelly's invitation to sit down and have some lunch. He said that he had a friend he wanted to look up, if he could. She had been disappointed, and that had surprised her. What the hell difference did it make? Christ, there were enough good-looking young men in her life, some of whom actually liked women. What was one soldier, more or less?

She had been curious to meet this general. Her father had told her that he was one of the legendary generals from World War II, one of the tank generals under somebody named Waterford (whom she had never heard of) and Patton, whom everybody had heard of. And this general, unlike the other ones, seemed to have gone out of his way to avoid meeting with the troupe. That had made Wayne mad. Wayne Baxley was very conscious of being a star, leader of what he really believed was “America's Favorite Orchestra,” and he considered it his right and due to be fawned over by the brass. She wondered if this general had really been as busy as his flunkies said, or if he just didn't want to be around Wayne Baxley and the other “stars.” There had even been some question as to whether he was going to show up on this last night.

But here he was, and the young major was with him, and it was obvious to Georgia that Colonel Dannelly couldn't figure that out.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Baxley,” the general said. “We're happy to have you with us.”

Wayne Baxley, oozing charm, replied that he always tried to do whatever he could for the boys in uniform. He told the general that Bob Hope had told him he was Number Two in terms of miles traveled to entertain the boys in uniform. Georgia thought that was so much crap, and wondered if the general believed him. For one thing, she didn't think that Bob Hope would be seen in public with Wayne Baxley, and if they had actually met, she was sure Baxley had called him “Mr. Hope” and hovered around him the way the brass here was hovering around this general. Finally, Wayne got around to introducing her.

“And every GI's dream girl, General, Georgia Paige,” Wayne said. Georgia was surprised he hadn't called for a round of applause.

“How do you do, Miss Paige?” the general said. He had not looked to see if she was wearing a brassiere.

Then the general said: “I suppose, Lowell, you've met our guests?”

“Yes, sir,” the good-looking young major said.

He looked at her, and then away, as if embarrassed to be caught looking. Georgia flashed him one of her warmest smiles, but it was too late. He was examining the stones in the fireplace of the general's mess.

A sergeant walked up to them with a tray full of drinks.

The general took a drink, and then he leaned over and spoke softly into the sergeant's ear. Georgia shamelessly eavesdropped: “Put Major Lowell beside me,” he said. The sergeant nodded.

For a moment, Georgia wondered if the general had something going with the young major. He was pretty enough. And then she discarded that notion, reminding herself this was the army, not show business, and the army was funny about faggots. Wayne had given a speech to the fairies, telling them that if anyone started fooling around with the soldiers, he would have to answer to him.

The way they were seated at dinner was with Georgia between two generals, the one, Black, her father had told her about, and the other a major general (two stars), one rank lower than Black. The young major was on the other side of General Black, and Wayne Baxley on the side of the other general. Where he was just about completely ignored by both generals, even when he went into his drunken Italian harmonica player routine.

The general spent dinner talking about tanks, and some task force, and the other general listened in to that conversation. And the young major had trouble keeping his eyes on the general, and off of her, which made her both feel better and worry a little. Could he tell she was interested, or was he finally aware that she was a movie star?

After dinner, of course, Dannelly moved in as quickly as he could when they were standing around the bar with brandy and coffee. She stayed with the general, because it was obvious that Major Lowell was wanted there. She was surprised how much: When Colonel Dannelly “suggested” that Lowell might like to watch them take the stage down after the last show, so that he could see what was involved, the general had shot that idea down.

“I'm sure he didn't get to be a major at his age without knowing how to load a trailer truck,” General Black said. “And if you can spare him, we haven't finished our conversation.”