The Captains (9 page)

“Who are these other men?” the Colonel replied, not responding to the request.

“I think they're from Item Company, sir,” Parker replied.

“That figures,” the colonel said. “I recognized the body of Item Company's commander on the road on the way up here.”

It took a moment before Parker realized the colonel was talking about the lieutenant he had shot.

“There's no other officer up here?” the colonel went on.

“No, sir.”

“OK,” the colonel said. “I don't have any communications to give you, but I'll try to get word to you if there's a further withdrawal.” He corrected himself: “
When
there is a further withdrawal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In the meantime, do the best you can,” the colonel said. “You've got the ball.”

“Sir, what about crews for the M24s?”

“That's your problem, Lieutenant. You're the company commander.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. You're Tank Company commander, and if that's what's left of Item Company, you're also Item Company commander. Your orders are the same as mine. Do what you can with what you've got.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I wouldn't spend a lot of time digging in,” the colonel said, as he cranked the jeep engine. “Apparently, we're not the only ones suffering from bug-out fever.”

Parker saluted, a reflex action, as the jeep pulled away. The colonel was too preoccupied with other matters to remember to return it.

“Sergeant Woodrow!” Parker called. Woodrow came running up.

“What's the word, Lieutenant?”

“I've just been named company commander. This is apparently the company.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That makes you first sergeant,” Parker said. “Of our people and these infantry types. The tanks are ours, but we're going to have to find crews for them.”

“I'll get right on it, Lieutenant,” Woodrow said. He touched his right hand to his forehead, a sloppy movement of his arm and wrist until the fingers touched the eyebrow, then a crisp movement, almost a jerk of the hand two inches away from the forehead. It wasn't a parade ground salute, but it was a salute rendered with respect, from a first sergeant to his company commander on the battlefield. Their eyes met for a moment.

“Thank you, First Sergeant,” Lieutenant Parker said, the faintest suggestion of emotion in his voice. “Carry on.”

(Four)
Tokyo, Japan
18 July 1950

The assignment of officers in the grade of captain rarely comes to the attention of very senior officers. But there are exceptions.

“Is there something else, VanAntwerp?” the Supreme Commander, Allied Powers asked of one of his colonels, who lingered momentarily after the other officers had left the SCAP conference room after the reading of the daily communiqué.

“Sir,” the colonel said, “I'm concerned about MacMillan.”

“Oh? Where is he? I haven't seen him about lately.”

“In Korea, sir, flying an L-5.”

“‘General,'” the SCAP quoted Captain MacMillan on his return from Korea immediately after hostilities began, “‘I think we got us a war.'” The SCAP smiled. “MacMillan is a warrior, Colonel. He lies dormant, like a hibernating grizzly, until he hears the blare of the trumpet and the roll of the drum, and then he comes alive again.”

“General, MacMillan has the Medal,” the colonel said.

“You are implying?” SCAP asked.

“That there would be a good deal in the press in the event Captain MacMillan should be killed, or turn up missing, or fall into the hands of the enemy.”

SCAP thought that over for a moment.

“Yes,” he agreed, nodding his head. “Recommendation?”

“That Captain MacMillan's contribution to the tactical situation as an L-5 pilot is no greater than any other pilot's. His loss at this time would have unfortunate public relations aspects.”

“Recommendation?” SCAP asked again.

“That he be assigned other duties.”

“Recommendation?”

“That he be returned to the Zone of the Interior for training as a helicopter pilot. Initially, particularly if the general saw fit to decorate him for his services, specifically his rescue under fire of the three KMAG officers from the Ongjin peninsula, he would have a definite public relations value.”

“Order him home, Colonel,” SCAP said. “Silver Star, you think?”

“‘General of the Army Douglas MacArthur,'” the colonel quoted from the photo caption he would release, “‘himself holder of the Medal of Honor, is shown awarding the Silver Star to Captain Rudolph G. MacMillan. It was the third award of the Silver Star to MacMillan, who won the Medal of Honor in World War II. MacMillan was decorated for his heroic service as an army aviator in the opening days of the Korean conflict…'”

“Yes,” the SCAP said. “Arrange it, Colonel.”

“Yes, sir.”

(One)

Captain Craig W. Lowell, Armor, U.S. Army Reserve, 11 Washington Mews, New York City, having been ordered—by telegram, by direction of the President of the United States—to report to the United States Army Reception Center, Fort George G. Meade, Maryland, not later than 2400 hours on 12 July 1950 for an indefinite period of active duty in connection with the Korean conflict, rolled up to the MP shack at the gate at 2330 hours.

He had checked into the Lord Baltimore Hotel in Baltimore shortly after two that afternoon, after driving down from New York City in his Jaguar XK120 convertible coupe. Someone from the office had called, and when he walked up to the desk and gave his name, an assistant manager appeared almost instantly, introduced himself, said how pleased they were to have him in the house, that they had a nice, quiet little suite for him, and if there was anything, anything at all he could do to make Mr. Lowell's stay more pleasant…

“Thank you,” Lowell had said. “There is.”

“How may we be of service?”

“That's full of uniforms,” Lowell said, pointing to the canvas Valv-Pak at the feet of the hovering bellman. “I'm going to need everything washable in it washed and everything else pressed, practically immediately.”

“It will all be ready for you in the morning,” the assistant manager said.

“I need it by eight o'clock tonight,” Lowell said.

“That may be a little difficult,” the assistant manager said.

“I'm sure you'll be able to manage,” Lowell said. “I'll keep the suite, even if I don't get to stay in it, until I tell you otherwise. Bill it to the firm, marked for my personal account.”

“Certainly, Mr. Lowell,” the assistant manager said.

Lowell motioned the bellman over, gave him ten dollars, and told him to take care of the uniforms that needed washing and pressing. And then he went in the bar and had a couple of drinks and tried to work up enough courage to call the Hotel D'Anglais in Monte Carlo, where Ilse, P.P., and the colonel were waiting for him, and to tell Ilse what had happened.

He had talked to her three times since he'd been in the United States and hadn't been able to tell her. He knew that not having told her posed another problem. She would be hurt.

He decided, again, that he would wait until he knew something. When he realized he was getting as tight as a tick tossing down the scotches, he left the bar and went down Baltimore Street and went in the first movie theater he came to.

He fell asleep and woke up with a stiff neck and his right leg painfully asleep.

He went back to the hotel, went into the hotel dining room, and had a split of California burgundy with a large slice of rare roast beef and then went to the desk and got the key to the suite.

There were two message slips under the door. Both said the same thing. He was to call Porter Craig in New York City. Porter Craig was his cousin and chairman of the board of Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes, Investment Bankers. Porter Craig was ten years older than Craig Lowell. He was Groton and Harvard and the Harvard School of Law. He did not get as much exercise as he would have liked, and was getting a little thick at the middle. He was also getting a little thin on top, and there was the suggestion of the jowls he would have in later life. If it were not for the coldness in his eyes, Porter Craig might have looked kindly.

Porter Craig's reaction to Lowell's telegram from the adjutant general of the United States Army was contemptuous anger. He would have a word with the senator, and that would be the end of it. It was absolutely outrageous that they should ask him to serve again. He had done his share.

The truth of the matter, Lowell knew, was that Porter was overreacting. In his heart of hearts, he would much prefer that Craig Lowell be gone from Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes. Knowing that had shamed Porter, and his reaction had been to demand that Lowell accept the influence he could bring to bear against the army.

“You're going to have to let me do this, Craig, before you report. Once you report, getting you out will be infinitely more difficult than keeping you out. You understand that?”

“I'll let you know when I need you, Porter,” he had told him.

He did not return Porter's calls now.

He undressed, showered, and shaved, aware that it was something of a symbolic ritual, and then he dressed in his uniform, except for the green tunic. He laid this on the bed and pinned the twin silver bars of a captain on the epaulets, the U.S. and armor insignia on the lapels. He looked at his ribbons, and replaced them in the leather insignia box. And then he took from the insignia box a miniature, unauthorized, and thus very popular version of the Expert Combat Infantry Badge and pinned that over the breast pocket.

He put the tunic on, buttoned it, and closed the belt, then took an overseas cap and put that on. He examined himself in the mirror. He saluted his image.

“Captain Lowell,” he said. “Reporting for duty, sir.” And then he said, “Shit!”

Then he called the desk and told them to have the car brought around and to send a bellman to his room. A moment after he hung up, he called back and told them to send up a bottle of Haig and Haig Pinch with the bellman.

When the bellman showed up, Lowell told him to take the uniforms on their hangers and to lay them out either in the trunk of the Jaguar or behind the seat, so they wouldn't get mussed, and to put the Valv-Pak and the briefcase on the passenger side seat.

“I'll be in the bar,” Lowell said. “Acquiring some liquid courage.”

“My brother-in-law got called up, too,” the bellman said. “Poor bastard.”

“Your brother or me?” Lowell asked.

“Both of you,” the bellman said.

Lowell thought again of calling Ilse and decided against it, then had two drinks in the bar before walking out of the hotel lobby and getting directions to Fort George G. Meade from the bellman. After that he got in the car and drove off.

The MP at the gate came to the car, saluted, and bent over.

“Reception center,” Lowell said.

“Stay on this road, sir,” the MP said. “One point three miles. You'll see a sign.”

“Thank you.”

“That's a real fine set of wheels, Captain,” the MP said, and saluted again.

It was, Lowell thought, his second visit to Fort George G. Meade, Maryland. He had previously reported here after a postcard had informed him that his friends and neighbors had selected him for induction into the armed forces of the United States. That was so much bullshit. He had been drafted because he'd been given the heave-ho from Harvard, cancelling his academic exemption.

He had arrived the first time by chartered bus, after a train ride from New York. He remembered the sergeant who had been waiting for them at the reception center, who had been displeased with the speed with which Private Lowell had gotten off the bus and into ranks, whose spittle had had sprayed Private Lowell's face as he screamed in his ear that he personally doubted that such a pile of shit could ever be turned into a soldier.

This time, when he reported to the reception center, a sergeant got to his feet when he walked in the building and actually smiled at him. He then assigned a corporal to take him to the BOQ. The corporal collected five dollars for BOQ fees, to pay for the orderly who had made up the bunk and who would sweep the floor and clean the latrine he was to share with the three other officers in the two bedroom, one latrine suite.

No bugles were blown the next morning, and neither did some bull-chested cretin amuse himself by lifting the end of his bunk and letting it slam back to the floor. No one screamed, “Drop your cocks and pick up your socks, it's reveille!” at the top of his lungs.

A sergeant came in and turned on the lights.

“There will be an orientation formation at 0800, gentlemen,” he said. “If you want breakfast, the officer's open mess feeds from now on. The big white building the other side of the parade ground.”

But there were other painful similarities. The impersonal physical examination, so much meat on the hoof being examined by bored doctors. The arm stiff from the tetanus shot, like seven others administered whether or not it was needed, because that speeded up the processing.

The forms to be filled out.

The false hopes: “They can't send all of us to Korea. When this bullshit is over, we'll be assigned somewhere counting mess kits.”

“Shit, I haven't been near the army for five years. I'm not qualified to command a squad, much less a company.”

“I've been working for the Chase Manhattan bank. I'd be of much greater use as a finance officer than in a line company. I don't know anything anymore about a line company.”

“That fucking war is going to be over in six months. Just as soon as Truman gets the balls to drop the A-bomb on them.”

The first thing that the Adjutant General's Corps captain (who would interview Captain Lowell and determine his assignment) thought when he saw him was that, if he were not wearing the “Bloody Bucket” shoulder patch from the 28th Infantry Division, Pennsylvania National Guard, Lowell could have easily been mistaken for a regular, or what was known as a “career reserve” officer. He
looked
like a soldier, not like most of the other recalls, who generally showed up in a uniform that looked as if it had been stuck in an attic trunk for a half decade—if, indeed, they showed up in uniform at all.

Captain Lowell's Class “A” green tunic and pink trousers were immaculate and perfectly tailored. His feet were shod in the highly polished, pebble-grained jodhpurs normally worn only by regular armor—or armored cavalry—officers who felt their appearance justified the extraordinary cost. He wore no ribbons on his breast; it was bare save for the miniature, unauthorized version of the wretched silver flintlock on a blue background, the Expert Combat Infantry Badge.

“You're one of the unfortunates, Captain Lowell,” the AGC captain said to him with somewhat forced joviality. “Your service record seems to have been mislaid between here and Fort Benjamin Harrison.”

At Fort Benjamin Harrison, in Indiana, in enormous, file-filled warehouses, the army maintains the records of officers and enlisted men not on active duty.

“Where does that leave me?” Captain Lowell asked.

“Well, what we're going to do for you fellows is make up a temporary service record, and 201 file, and then correct it when the real thing catches up with you. I don't suppose you've kept your own 201 file?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Lowell said. He reached onto the floor beside him, picked up a softly gleaming, saddle-leather attaché case bearing his initials in gold. “May I?” he asked, placing it on the captain's desk and opening it. He took out two inch-thick folders, their contents held in place by metal clips. “Everything's in there,” he said.

The AGC captain flipped quickly through them.

“May I have these? They'd certainly be a help.”

“You may make certified true copies of anything you want,” Captain Lowell said, “but you can't have them.”

The AGC captain didn't like that at all. He spent the next fifteen minutes reading through the files.

“You've had a very
interesting
career, haven't you?” he said, finally.

Lowell didn't reply.

“Captain, how would you feel about a detail to infantry?” the AGC officer asked.

“I wouldn't like that at all, Captain,” Captain Lowell said, flatly.

“You've got to look at the big picture,” he said. “There aren't that many vacancies for armor officers of your grade.”

“Great, send me home.”

“You've had service—according to your record, distinguished service—as an advisor to an infantry unit. And we need infantry company commanders. You have the Expert Combat Infantry Badge.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Captain Lowell said, unpleasantly.

“Now wait a minute!”

“I'm not going to take a voluntary detail to infantry. If I'm detailed to infantry, I will make a stink you wouldn't believe. I'm a qualified armor officer.”

“Not as a captain, you're not. You're not a graduate of the Advanced Armor Officer's Course.”

“Neither am I of the Advanced Infantry Officer's Course,” Lowell said.

“I don't really need your permission, you know.”

“Yes, you do, you chair-warming sonofabitch, or else you wouldn't have called me in here to feed me your line of bullshit.”

 

“Have a seat, Captain Lowell,” the lieutenant colonel in charge of Recalled Officer's Classification and Assignment said, and then he said to the AGC captain, “I'll handle this, Tom.”

He spent fifteen minutes going over Captain Lowell's personal 201 file.

“You're very young to be a captain, you know,” he said, finally.

“Yes, sir, I suppose I am,” Lowell said.