The Captains (50 page)

“Rephrase,” he said. “An intelligence officer must know how to restrain his impulsive urges. Major Lowell does not have that characteristic.”

“That sort of thing would be decided by the people who evaluate his application, Major,” the CIC agent said. “They'll want to know what you think of him as an officer. They'll determine if he's liable to make a good intelligence officer.”

“I'm one of the guys who sits on those boards,” Felter said. He rolled over on his hospital bed, and opened his shaving kit, and took out a well-worn leather folder. He opened it and showed it to the CIC agent.

“I didn't know that about you, Major,” the CIC agent said.

“There's no reason you should,” Felter said. “When you make up your Report of Interview, make sure it includes the information that I revealed my duty assignment to you, and my statement that recommending that Major Lowell not be considered for an intelligence assignment was personally difficult for me. He's my best friend.”

The CIC agent nodded his head.

“And the next time you find yourself wishing that you were through with backgrounds, and ‘really doing something in intelligence,'” Felter said, “remember this interview. That isn't the only decision I've had to make that makes me a little ashamed of myself.”

(Four)
Fort Knox, Kentucky
17 May 1952

When Major Craig Lowell was informed by the adjutant of Student Officer Company, the Armor School (SOC-TAS), that his application for integration into the regular army had been approved, and that, presuming he could pass a precommissioning physical examination, he would be integrated into the regular army as a first lieutenant, with adjusted date of rank 24 July 1950, and that he would be permitted to continue on active duty as a reserve officer in the grade of major, he simply nodded his head.

He had toyed with the notion of endorsing the correspondence “insert your RA commission violently upward into your anal orifice.”

But when the commission was actually tendered, even though he told himself that he knew better, he thought perhaps he was at least partially vindicated, that if they were really out to hang his ass, they would have thought of some excuse not to offer the RA commission.

His application for intelligence was still in. Certainly Sandy would have said a number of good words about him, and he had the Greece experience, and that would certainly be a hell of a lot better than going back to the bank.

His application for assignment to intelligence duties came back with an endorsement saying that “no vacancies exist at the present time for an officer with your qualifications nor are any anticipated in the foreseeable future, and therefore reapplication is not encouraged.”

He swallowed that.

Captain Philip Sheridan Parker IV was honor graduate of Advanced Officer's Course 52-16. He was given a replica of a Civil War cavalry saber and a one year's free membership in the Armor Association. He was assigned to Fort Devens, Massachusetts, as assistant dependent housing officer.

Major Craig Lowell, who was .05 grade points behind Captain Parker (3.93 and 3.88, respectively, out of a possible 4.0), received permanent change of station orders to proceed to the Bordentown Military Academy, Bordentown, New Jersey, as deputy to the army advisor to the Junior ROTC Detachment at the private military high school for boys.

(One)
New York City, N.Y.
16 October 1952

When Porter Craig, president and acting chairmen of the board of Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes, returned to his office from the Luncheon Club on the 38th floor of the Morgan Guaranty Trust Building, where he had lunched with his cousin, Major Craig W. Lowell, he sat down at his desk and swiveled the high-backed leather chair so that he could look out the huge plate-glass window at lower Manhattan Island and the Hudson River. He put his feet up on the marble window sill, and sat with the balls of his fingers touching, as if praying.

Then he suddenly spun the chair around, pushed the concealed button on his desk which activated a microphone concealed in the cigar humidor, and told his secretary to get the senator on the telephone just as quickly as she could.

“Porter Craig, Senator. Thank you for taking my call. I know what a busy man you are.”

The senator replied that it was always a pleasure to speak with his good friend, and asked how he might be of service to his favorite man on Wall Street.

“I've just had lunch with my cousin, Craig Lowell,” Porter Craig said. “And let me make clear to you this telephone call is my idea, not his. I'm quite sure that he would be furious if he even suspected I would pass what he told me any further. Or in any way interfere in his affairs.”

“I remember the name,” the senator said. “He was in the army in Greece, as I recall, five or six years ago? Was wounded, and something of a hero, wasn't he?”

“That's the man.”

“Your grandfather asked me to find out what I could about his condition. I was, of course, happy to be of assistance. Now, what about him?”

“He's about to resign from the army,” Porter Craig said. “And while I would, of course, be delighted to have him here with me in the firm…he's a Wharton graduate, and smart as a whip, and I can't really see why he stayed in the army at all, frankly.”

“But apparently, he did,” the senator said. He was beginning to sense the reason behind the call.

“And did rather well, I must say. He's a major, which I understand is truly extraordinary for someone his age.”

“He was just a boy, I recall, when he was in Greece.”

“He's hardly more than a boy now,” Porter Craig said. “Twenty-five.”

“Extraordinary,” the senator said.

“He's just back from Korea,” Porter Craig went on. “Looking like a young Patton. He has the Distinguished Service Medal and the Silver Star, and God knows what else. There's barely room for his ribbons on his uniform.”

“Indeed,” the senator said. He wished Porter Craig would make his point.

“I suppose that's what makes me angry enough to bring this to your attention,” Porter Craig said. “It seems to me that he's entitled to more from the army, because of what he's done for the army, than is apparently the case.”

“Go on,” the senator said.

“He told me that he's about to resign.”

“Did he say why? It would appear to me that with a record like that, he should have a brillant career ahead of him.”

“I suspect that he may have risen a bit too fast,” Porter Craig said. “I suspect there may be some jealousy involved.”

“I'd be surprised if there were not,” the senator said. “But surely, he can rise above that?”

“The reason he gives for resigning from the army is that he thinks he has been removed from consideration for meaningful advancement.”

“Why does he think that?”

“Because of the assignment they've given him.”

“Which is?”

Porter Craig was not about to be brought to the point until he was ready to make it.

“And it's not only Craig who has been, in my judgment, rather shoddily treated. He just graduated, with honors, from the Army School at Fort Knox, second in his class. The honor graduate, Senator, if you can believe this, has been assigned as a dependent housing officer in Massachusetts. Craig, who was second in his class, has been assigned to Bordentown Military Academy, where he says he is in the charge of the sergeant who is teaching the little boys how to march.”

“That doesn't seem to be a very satisfactory assignment for a bright young major, does it?” the senator asked. “Nor a very wise expenditure of the taxpayer's dollar?”

“I didn't think so,” Porter Craig said. “That's why I called you. I would not ask for special treatment, and he certainly wouldn't ask for it himself. But I don't think I am asking for special treatment when I bring what I consider an outrageous waste of the taxpayer's dollar to your attention.”

And just incidentally, the senator thought, keep Cousin Craig from coming home again and claiming his half of Craig, Powell, Kenyon and Dawes, Inc.

“You don't happen to know the number of the course he attended at Fort Knox, do you?” the Senator asked.

“No, I'm afraid I don't.”

“Well, I can find out,” the senator said. “I'll get back to you, Porter. I understand the situation. Sometimes, you have to call the military to attention.”

“As I say, I'm not seeking any special treatment for my cousin,” Porter Craig said. The senator was annoyed.

“But if it could be arranged to keep him in the army, fine, is that it?”

There was a long pause.

“That would seem to sum it up rather aptly, Senator,” Porter Craig said finally.

“I'll see what small influence I have on the Pentagon can do for you, Porter,” the senator said. “In the meantime, try to talk him out of submitting his resignation.”

(Two)
Washington, D.C.
19 October 1952

The senator met the Vice Chief of Staff of the United States Army at a cocktail party and dinner given in honor of the junior senator from Iowa at the Occidental Restaurant by the American Farm Machinery Foundation.

“Tell me, General,” the senator said, laying a fraternal arm around the Vice Chief of Staff's shoulders, “how is your new personnel system working out? Is it getting round pegs in round holes, or are you still trying to make bakers out of candlestick makers and vice versa?”

The Vice Chief of Staff of the U.S. Army knew the question was not idle.

“So far as I know, Senator,” he said, “it's working out very well.”

“The right officer in the right assignment, right?”

“We try to do our best, Senator,” the Vice Chief of Staff said.

“And how often does that work?”

“How about ninety-nine times out of a hundred?”

“You don't mean to say?”

“Have you something specific in mind, Senator?” the Vice Chief of Staff asked.

“I was wondering about the school system, as a matter of fact,” the senator said.

“What, sir, were you wondering?”

“Whether it's really worth all the money it costs the poor taxpayer.”

“Well, if a man can't drive a truck when we get him, and we need truck drivers, we have to teach him how to drive one. It's as simple as that.”

“I was thinking more of the officer-level schools.”

“What level?”

“The Advanced Officer's Courses. Are they really necessary?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you can put their graduates to work, doing what they're trained to do?”

“We can, and we do.”

“You don't mean to say!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And after they're trained, right into that little round hole, right? Presuming it's a little round officer?”

“To the best of my knowledge, Senator,” the Vice Chief of Staff said. He wondered what the hell the senator was leading up to.

“If we were playing poker, General,” the senator said, “would you bet on that hand? Or would you want to see if you could draw some better cards?”

“I've got all the cards I need, thank you, Senator,” the Vice Chief of Staff said.

“I'll call,” the senator said. “Get out your little notebook, Son,” he said to the silver-haired, full bird colonel aide-de-camp of the Vice Chief of Staff.

“I didn't hear the bet,” the Vice Chief of Staff said with a broad smile that showed just faint signs of strain.

“You're telling me you're assigning officers so that their service, in terms of their records and the expensive education the taxpayer has bought for them, will give the taxpayer the best possible return on his investment,” the senator said. “I'm betting you're not.”

“But what's the bet?”

“Just a fun game, between friends,” the senator said. “Now, just for the hell of it, let's find out—picking something out of the air, you understand—how you assigned the two officers at the top of their class at the last Advanced Officer's Class at Fort Knox. The last class, I believe, was Number 52-16. You write that down, Son, so we all remember. I would be very interested to know who they are, what kind of records they have, what their assignments are, and why they were made.”

“You get that, Dick?” the Vice Chief of Staff said to his aide.

“Yes, sir.”

“Put it in writing, General,” the senator said. “You're a silver-tongued devil, you are, always making me think you said something you didn't say.”

(Three)
Fort Devens, Massachusetts
25 October 1952

In addition to his other duties, the assistant dependent housing officer at Fort Devens, Massachusetts, had been assigned as assistant club officer. The club officer himself, a major of the Transportation Corps, set a fine table, as they say, but he wasn't much with the books. Taking care of the books was just the job for a jigaboo captain who had been the honor graduate of the Advanced Course at Knox.

When four telephone calls, spaced at precise forty-five-minute intervals, failed to raise Captain Philip Sheridan Parker IV at his bachelor officer's quarters number, his caller, somewhat embarrassed that he hadn't thought of this before, told the long distance operator to try to locate Captain Parker at the officer's club.

There was the sound of a barroom.

“Officer's open mess, main bar room, Sergeant Feeney, sir.”

“Long distance is calling Captain P. S. Parker,” the operator intoned.

“I'm not sure if he's here,” the sergeant said.

“Look for him,” the caller said, flatly.

“I beg your pardon?” the sergeant-bartender said.

“I said, look for him,” the caller repeated.

“May I ask who's calling, please, sir?”

“This is Colonel Philip Sheridan Parker,” the caller said.

There was a long wait, and then the click of an extension telephone being lifted.

“Captain Parker, sir.”

“You may get off the line, Sergeant,” Colonel Parker said.

The background sound of the barroom vanished.

“Hey, Dad, how are you? Is anything wrong?” Phil Parker asked, concern in his voice.

“Nothing is wrong. Is this telephone relatively secure?”

“Nobody else is on it, if that's what you mean. You sound upset, Dad. Is something wrong?”

“Have you been considering resignation?”

Phil Parker hesitated a moment before replying. “The thought has run through my mind,” he said. “I haven't done anything about it.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Colonel Parker said.

Phil didn't reply.

“Have you been drinking?” Colonel Parker asked.

“No, but that's one thought that really has been going through my mind.” And then he understood the reason for the question. “Oh,” he said. “In addition to my other duties, I am assistant club officer. I've been going over the books. That's why I'm here.”

“I would like to suggest that you put off any action with regard to resignation for a while,” Colonel Parker said.

“Dad, I have no intention of spending my life fighting with dependent wives about grease spots on kitchen walls, or counting bottles of whiskey and A-1 sauce in officer's clubs. A classmate of mine is in the shipping business in Boston. He's offering me a hell of a lot of money, and the chance to live for a couple of years in Africa.”

“You're a soldier,” his father said.

“I'm beginning to have serious doubts about that,” Phil Parker replied.

“I had a telephone call late this afternoon from an officer with whom I served in Europe. I am not at liberty to provide his name.”

“And?”

“This officer is also a soldier,” Colonel Parker said. “He leads me to believe that your situation is not quite as hopeless as you might think.”

“Club officers are in short supply,” Parker said.