The Captains Page 20

  “I have an idea or two of my own, Colonel,” Lowell said.

  “I’m sure you do,” Lt. Colonel Jiggs said. “Just so that Wallace doesn’t get all the glory.”

  “Wasps,” Lowell said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What you do is mount .50s in three-quarter-ton trucks,” Lowell began.

  “And you have a vision, do you, of riding in the lead, what did you say, ‘Wasp’? Leading, so to speak, this grand and glorious cavalry sweep?” Colonel Jiggs’s remarks got to Lowell. He realized the colonel was mocking him, and he shut up.

  Then the colonel said, “It might work. But have you got time to set something like that up?”

  “Baker Company’s got five ready to go, Colonel.”

  “You will ride in a tank,” Colonel Jiggs said. “In an M46, not an M24, and you will be no closer to the point of the column than the fourth vehicle.”

  “May I infer from that that the colonel has decided I am to be allowed to command the column?” Lowell asked.

  “Captain Lowell, where else am I to find someone who devoutly believes he is the combined reincarnation of George Armstrong Custer and George Smith Patton? Or dumb enough to try what you obviously intend to try?”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Lowell said, and Sergeant Wallace saw that he said it humbly.

  “Why ‘Wasps’?” Colonel Jiggs asked.

  “They sting,” Lowell said. “You know, like a wasp.”

  “What an overly melodramatic nomenclature,” Lt. Colonel Jiggs said dryly. “Why, that’s nearly as bad as Task Force Bengal.”

  “My head, sir,” Lowell said, “is both bloody and bowed.”

  “I came in here with one thing on my mind,” Lt. Colonel Jiggs said. “Now I have three things. First, if you really think that you can go further and faster than anyone else does, you’d better think about what kind of supplies you’ll need to have air-dropped.”

  “Sergeant Wallace has just about finished drawing up our requirements, sir,” Lowell said.

  “I can have them for you in an hour, sir,” Wallace said.

  “OK. That brings us to Item Two. Don’t you plan on going along to the Little Big Horn, Wallace. After the Indians do in Custer here, I’m going to need you.”

  “I’d really prefer to go along, sir. I’m a tank comm—”

  “Goddamnit, I’d really prefer to go along, too,” Colonel Jiggs snapped. “You stay, Wallace, and that’s it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wallace said.

  “Item Three,” Colonel Jiggs said, and took a message form from his pocket and handed it to Lowell. Lowell read it, and handed it to Wallace.

  FROM: CG, ARMY EIGHT

  TO: CO, 73RD HV TNK BN

  AT 0425 HOURS 15SEP50 FOLLOWING LIFTING OF A THIRTY MINUTE ARTILLERY BARRAGE TASK FORCE BENGAL, AUGMENTED AS YOU SEE FIT FROM FORCES AVAILABLE TO YOU, WILL PASS THROUGH THE LINES AND ATTACK ON THE LINE PUSAN KOCHANG SUWON ENGAGING TARGETS OF OPPORTUNITY BUT WITH PRIMARY MISSION OF REACHING KOCHANG AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

  WALKER

  LT GEN

  (Four)

  Pusan, South Korea

  0415 Hours

  15 September 1950

  Task Force Bengal began to actually form only when the artillery barrage began at 0355 hours. The various components of it—a dozen tanks here; the self-propelled howitzers there; the dogfaces on their six-by-sixes; the Signal Corps radio trucks; the ammo trucks; the fuel trucks—had formed separately; and when the barrage began, they started to converge on the departure point.

  Captain Lowell was already there, of course, and the first sergeant of Baker Company (who was going) and Technical Sergeant Wallace (who wasn’t) stood on the road like traffic cops, making sure the vehicles were in line where they were supposed to be.

  When the barrage started, the sky had been dark, and the flare of the cannon muzzles had been almost exactly like a lightning storm. But as the barrage continued, the sky grew lighter; and the artillery was less visible. It was still audible, however, a ceaseless roaring as the shells passed overhead.

  Colonel Paul T. Jiggs, to his fury, had been summoned by a messenger from Eighth Army Forward. He had been afraid that Task Force Bengal was about to be scratched. But that wasn’t what Victor Forward wanted him for.

  He raced up to the head of column, where he found Captain Craig W. Lowell leaning on an M46. There had been changes to the M46 since Lt. Colonel Jiggs had last seen it the previous afternoon.

  It was now named. ILSE had been painted on the turret. What the hell, that was his wife; he was entitled. But what pissed the colonel was the guidon flying from one of the antennae. It was the guidon of Baker Company, a small yellow flag with a V-shaped indentation on the flying end. As originally issued, it had read “B” and below that “73.” Baker Company of the 73. The yellow identified it as cavalry, or armor.

  Someone had carefully lettered “Task Force Lowell” on the guidon.

  Jiggs controlled his temper after a moment. He knew where the change had come from. Lowell hadn’t done it. His troopers had done it. They had been shoving everyone’s nose in the dog shit ever since they had been picked as the nucleus of Task Force Bengal, and especially since the word had gotten out that their CO, the Duke, was to command.

  Lowell stood erect and saluted as Colonel Jiggs walked up. He was as worried as Jiggs that the last-minute call had meant the operation had been either delayed or scratched.

  “I like your guidon, Lowell,” Colonel Jiggs said.

  “That wasn’t my idea, Colonel,” Lowell said, embarrassed.

  “Of course not,” Jiggs said, sweetly, letting him sweat. He handed him a sealed manila envelope. “Signal Operating Instructions,” he said.

  “It goes?”

  “It goes.”

  “Thank God! I was scared shitless when they called you to Victor Forward.”

  “And something else, Lowell, which explains a whole hell of a lot.”

  He handed him a message form.

  FROM: SUPREME COMMANDER

  TO: ALL US FORCES IN KOREA

  AT 0200 HOURS 15SEP50 ELEMENTS OF THE FIRST U.S. MARINE DIVISION, AS PART OF THE X UNITED STATES CORPS, LT GEN EDWARD M ALMOND, USA, COMMENCED AN AMPHIBIOUS INVASION OF THE KOREA PENINSULA AT INCHON NEAR SEOUL.

  MACARTHUR

  GENERAL OF THE ARMY

  “It’s about time we got off our ass,” Lowell said.

  “So what you are is a diversion,” Jiggs said. “The more hell you can raise, the better.”

  “Diversion, hell. I’ll head for Seoul!”

  “First try to get to Koch’ang, Captain Lowell,” Colonel Jiggs said.

  Lowell looked at his watch.

  “I better get cranked up, Colonel,” he said.

  “First get to Koch’ang, Captain,” Jiggs said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel Jiggs put out his hand.

  “Try to stay alive,” he said. “And remember, you are not George Patton.”

  Lowell looked at him for a moment, and then he smiled. He put his fingers in his mouth, whistled shrilly, and caught the attention of the driver of the M46 behind his. Then he extended his index finger, held it over his head, and made a “wind it up” signal. A starter ground, and an 810 horsepower engine burst into life.

  “Watch it, Craig,” Colonel Jiggs said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I want you and everybody else back alive.”

  Lowell was embarrassed by the emotion. He nodded his head, and then started to climb up the bogies and onto the M46 he had just named ILSE.

  The barrage stopped precisely on schedule. And precisely on schedule, Task Force Bengal began to roll across the line of departure.

  Lowell went first. He would put his Wasps out front only after he had gotten behind the enemy lines.

  Lt. Colonel Jiggs stood where Lowell’s tank had been parked, waving his hand and even sometimes returning salutes, as the task force rolled past him, vehicle after vehicle, seemingly forever.

&n
bsp; At that moment, he hated Captain Lowell, who was taking his troops into battle, while he had to stay behind to wage war with the chair-warmers at Eighth Army.

  (Five)

  57th U.S. Army Field Hospital

  Giessen, Germany

  23 September 1950

  Major T. Jennings Wilson, QMC, Chief, Winter Field Equipment, U.S. Army General Depot, Giessen, had been awake in his private room on the top floor of the hospital since daybreak, even before they brought him his breakfast.

  He was horribly hung over, and it hurt him to breathe. He’d either broken some ribs when he slammed into the steering wheel, or at the very least, given himself one hell of a bruise. His knees were sore, too. They had probably slammed against the dashboard. Goddamned kraut!

  Major Wilson had searched his memory. He was a little confused. Christ, anybody would be confused, but he didn’t think they’d taken a blood sample, so he was probably safe from a charge that he was drunk. He didn’t remember things clearly from the moment of the crash until he sort of came to in the X-ray room.

  He did remember some things. He remembered getting out of the Oldsmobile, after the crash and looking at the Jaguar long enough to see that the woman driving it was dead, and that the car had kraut license plates. That was going to cause him trouble. There weren’t that many krauts with enough money to drive Jaguars, and that meant it was the kind of kraut who would probably sue the shit out of him in a German court, before German judges. Did the German courts have juries? If they did, obviously there would be German jurors, who would not only find him guilty, but sock him with a million dollars’ worth of damages.

  Fuck it, that’s what you bought insurance for. That was the insurance company’s problem, not his. His problem was getting through this without seeing his career go down the toilet. The army got hysterical when you got in a wreck involving a German national. It was bad for German-American relations, and the army was going ape-shit lately about German-American relations. The bullshit they were passing out was that the U.S. Army was a “guest” of the German people.

  Bullshit. The U.S. Army was here because they’d beat the Germans in War II.

  He went over and over in his mind what had happened, and by the time the MPs showed up, he was reasonably sure that he was home free. Oh, there were going to be problems, of course. He was going to need a new car. The Olds was demolished; the whole fucking front end was gone. And he knew he could count on trouble with the insurance company. They were going to have to pay for this, of course, but then, sure as Christ made little apples, they were going to cancel his insurance. Or jump his premiums.

  And he’d probably given Dolores fits. He remembered that the doctor who had examined him had said that his wife had been notified and told that she should wait until today to see him, that they wanted to keep him under observation for twenty-four hours. Dolores sometimes went off the deep end when something like this happened. She wouldn’t understand that it was just one of those things that happens sometimes. He was sorry about the kraut woman, naturally. Nobody likes to be involved in a fatal accident. It was a goddamned shame, and he was sorry about it, but things like this happened, and it seemed to be his turn to have it happen to him.

  He knew the MPs would get involved. They investigated every accident. And when it was a bad one, like this one, they sent Criminal Investigation Division, CID, agents to do the investigating. CID agents were MP sergeants who wore civilian clothes, the army equivalent of police detectives.

  Major Wilson was not surprised, either, that the CID agents who came into his room were wearing officer’s pinks and greens. All they wore was officer’s U.S. insignia on the lapels. No insignia or rank or branch of service. Just the officer’s uniform permitted to civilian employees in Civil Service Grade GS-7 or better. What the hell, pinks and greens looked good, and if he had been an MP sergeant, he’d probably have done the same thing.

  “Major Wilson?” the older of the two CID agents asked.

  “That’s right,” Major Wilson replied.

  The credentials of a CID agent, a leather folder carrying a badge and a plastic-covered ID card, were flashed in his face.

  “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Preston, Major Wilson,” the older of the two CID agents said. “And this is Agent MacInerney.”

  Major Wilson wondered, fleetingly, if he really was a light colonel, or whether that was some sort of technique they used, making believe they ranked you to get you off balance. He decided it didn’t matter. What was important for him was to handle these two very carefully.

  “How do you do, sir?” Major T. Jennings Wilson said, politely.

  “I guess you know why we’re here, Major,” Preston said. “To talk to you about the collision yesterday afternoon.”

  “I understand,” Major Wilson said.

  “And I’m sure you’re aware of your rights under the 31st Article of War? I mean, I’m sure you know that you don’t have to say anything to us that would tend to incriminate you? Or, for that matter, that you don’t have to talk to us at all?”

  “Yes, of course,” Major Wilson said. “I’ll answer any questions you have, Colonel. Any that I can.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Preston said. “I guess the best way to go about this, if you don’t mind doing it this way, would be for you to just tell us what happened, in your own words. Would that be all right with you?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir,” Major Wilson said.

  “And the best place to start, of course,” Preston said, “is at the beginning. I understand you were in Bad Hersfeld. Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir,” Major Wilson said. “I was in Hersfeld for the past two days. I was with the G-4 of the 14th Constabulary. I’m chief of the Winter Equipment Division of the Depot, and I was up there trying to get a line on the requirements of the 14th for the upcoming year.”

  “I see,” Preston said. “And you were coming back here when this happened?”

  “I almost made it,” Wilson said, wryly. “Yes, sir, that’s right.”

  “When did you leave Hersfeld?”

  “After lunch,” Major Wilson said.

  “Have you got an approximate time?”

  “Oh, say, and I really don’t remember, precisely, 1400, something like that. It was really a working lunch.”

  “And you drove straight through? You didn’t stop anyplace?”

  “I drove straight through.”

  “Then you made pretty good time, didn’t you? The collision took place at 1630, according to the German police.”

  That idle question worried Major Wilson. Of course he had made good time. And the only way to make good time was to speed. What were these bastards up to? Were they going to divide the miles traveled by the time it took, and then charge him with speeding? He had heard they were capable of chickenshit like that. But then he thought that through. To do that, they would need witnesses to swear that he had left at a precise time, and he didn’t think anybody could truthfully swear to the time he’d left the club in Hersfeld.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I guess I did. There was hardly any traffic on the roads.”

  “Tell me what you remember about the accident,” Preston suggested.

  “Well, truthfully,” Major Wilson said, “not much. It all happened so quickly.”

  “You remember where it happened?” Preston asked.

  “Yes, of course. About four, five miles out of Giessen. There’s a series of curves in the road there, S’s, I guess you’d call them. You really have to take them slowly. Well, as best as I recollect, Colonel, I was in the second or third curve, when all of a sudden this kraut comes around the curve in the other direction, coming out of Giessen, I mean to say, going like the hammers of hell. A Jaguar. You know how those krauts, the ones with enough money to drive a car like a Jaguar, drive.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, that’s all there is to tell. I tried to get out of her way, but she was on my side of the road, and there was nothing I could d
o.”

  “You say the Jaguar was speeding?”

  “Going like hell,” Major Wilson said.

  “What about you?”

  “Hell, I know that road, sir. I wasn’t going more than thirty-five or forty.”

  “Had you been drinking, Major?”

  “To tell you the truth, I had a couple of drinks over lunch at the club in Hersfeld. I know, duty hours and all that, but I’d put in a tough day and a half.”

  “A ‘couple’ is two,” Preston said.

  “I think two is all I had, sir,” Major Wilson said.

  “The collision, Major Wilson, is under investigation by both the army and the German police.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised,” Major Wilson replied.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, the obvious reason. They get an American officer in front of a German court, an American carrying all the insurance they make us carry, and they can walk away with a bundle. You could hardly call it a trial by my peers.”

  “You’ll be tried by your peers, Major. I think you can count on that.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” Major Wilson said. “I’ll take my chances before an American court-martial any time. We know how crazy these krauts drive.”

  “I don’t think I’m making myself clear,” Preston said. “You’re going to face a civil suit in the German courts. And criminal prosecution by a court-martial.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Your story doesn’t wash, Major,” Preston said. “For openers, we already have statements from the waiter of the officer’s club in Hersfeld. You had five drinks, not two, at lunch. And then at a quarter to four, you stopped at the Gasthaus zum Golden Hirsch in Kolbe and drank two bottles of beer, to wash down two drinks of Steinhager. They remember you clearly because you were offensive when they had no American whiskey to offer.”

  “I deny that, of course,” Major Wilson said.

  “Let me go on,” Preston said, icily. “The Jaguar wasn’t speeding. We know that for two reasons. One, we know that the Jaguar entered the highway approximately one hundred yards from the point of impact. There is an intersection there with a back road, which leads, as you probably know, to the commissary and PX at the QM Depot. The Jag had taken that road. We have witnesses. Two, the gear shift lever of the Jag was locked into second gear by the impact. A Jag won’t do more than thirty-five or forty, wide open, in second gear. And we can’t prove it, of course, but we consider it unlikely that a woman with a child beside her is going to run her car flat out.”