Honor Bound Page 3

  Captain McGuire elected to see the mission in the latter regard. He thus received permission from Battalion to delay the prescribed company training for five days, successfully arguing that it would benefit the men of his company more not only to practice their skills, but to become familiar with how other specialists performed their duties.

  In other words, the entire company would watch the second platoon rig explosive charges on the chimney and the gutted buildings (these would be designed to knock the chimney down and reduce the massive brickwork to large chunks). Then the entire company would watch the first platoon, using air-hammers, reduce the large chunks of masonry to sizes which the third platoon would then load onto trucks and haul away. During all of these operations, everyone would lend a hand, wherever possible; they’d all get their hands dirty. Finally, everyone would get a chance to watch the company’s bulldozers scrape the area and turn it back into bare ground.

  Since Captain McGuire thought of himself as something of an expert in the skills required for this project, he had given it a good deal of thought. In his judgment, it would take two days to lay the initial demolition charges. Using the available engineer manuals, he had precisely calculated the explosive needed to topple the chimney and shatter the brickwork of the surrounding buildings.

  It would then take another two days, using both explosives and air-hammers, to reduce the chunks to manageable sizes, and a final day to load everything up, truck it off, and bulldoze the site.

  He had kept this information to himself. In his view, the best way for his platoon-leading lieutenants to learn how to do something was to do it themselves—using the available manuals as a guide, of course.

  Because Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi commanded his second platoon, he was charged with toppling the tower. After Pelosi surveyed the site, he came up with an Explosives Requirement that, in Captain McGuire’s judgment, was woefully insufficient for the task.

  Even so, McGuire decided to let Pelosi fail. When Pelosi blew his charges and the chimney and the buildings still stood, he would learn the painful and humiliating truth that he didn’t know nearly as much about demolitions as he thought he did.

  Pelosi’s overconfidence was perhaps understandable. Very soon after he arrived in Able Company, Pelosi informed McGuire that in Chicago, where he came from, his family operated a firm called Pelosi & Sons Salvage Company; his father was one of the sons. McGuire instantly concluded that the firm was connected with used auto parts or something of that nature; but that did not turn out to be the case. Rather, the business involved the salvage of bridges, water tanks, and other steel-framed structures. The first step in the salvage process, Lieutenant Pelosi went on to explain, was knocking the structure down. This was normally accomplished by explosives.

  While he was not arrogant about it—Pelosi was really a nice kid, who had the makings of a good officer—he was nonetheless unable to conceal his conviction that he knew more about explosives and demolition than anyone he’d met in the Army.

  After Pelosi gave him his Explosives Requirement list, his more than a little annoying aura of self-confidence inspired McGuire to go back and recalculate the explosives necessary for the job. Recalculation confirmed McGuire’s belief that all Pelosi’s charges were going to do was make a lot of noise.

  Captain McGuire’s major problem with Pelosi, however, was not his misplaced self-confidence, but his application for transfer. McGuire was trying to be philosophical about it.

  For one thing, he told himself, no officer is indispensable. Losses of officers, either through routine transfers or eventually in combat, were inevitable; and as commanding officer, he should be prepared to deal with them. For another, when a young, full-of-piss-and-vinegar second lieutenant, fresh from both Officer Candidate School and the Parachute School at Fort Benning (in other words, he had volunteered for both OCS and Airborne), saw a notice on the Bulletin Board soliciting volunteers for an unspecified military intelligence assignment—volunteers who were parachute-qualified officers fluent in one or more of a dozen listed foreign languages—it was to be expected that he would volunteer.

  Lieutenant Pelosi was not quite old enough to vote; and, Captain McGuire was quite sure, he had not yet lost either his boyish enthusiasm or his boyish taste for adventure. He almost certainly saw himself parachuting behind enemy lines, Thompson submachine gun in hand, à la Alan Ladd or Tyrone Power in the movies. On the ground, when he was not blowing up Mussolini’s headquarters, he’d spend his time in the arms of some large-breasted Italian beauty. (He was fluent in Italian; where else could they send him?)

  If real life actually worked that way, McGuire thought, he would have been happy to see Pelosi go. But McGuire had been around the Army long enough—his father, also a West Pointer, had just been promoted to Brigadier General—to view somewhat suspiciously the recruitment of parachute-qualified officers with foreign language skills.

  Military Intelligence, for example, needed people to read the Osservatore, the Vatican newspaper, to see if there was anything there that could remotely be of interest to the U.S. Army. After receiving permission to recruit volunteers, Military Intelligence had decided to recruit from the Airborne Forces, since a selection process eliminating all but the most intelligent and highly motivated officers had already been performed.

  Captain McGuire did not believe that Military Intelligence would be crippled if Second Lieutenant Pelosi did not join its ranks. Able Company, however, needed him. He possessed a quality of leadership that McGuire to a large degree found missing in his other lieutenants.

  McGuire was therefore determined to retain at all costs the services of Second Lieutenant Pelosi in Able Company.

  First he tried to counsel the young officer, suggesting to him that he could make a greater contribution to the war effort right here in Able Company than he could reading the Vatican newspaper behind a desk someplace. When that failed (Pelosi was polite but adamant), McGuire wrote what he frankly thought was a masterful 1st Indorsement to Pelosi’s application for transfer, outlining his present value to Able Company and his potential usefulness in the future, and recommending that for the good of the service, the application should not be favorably considered.

  He then led the Battalion Sergeant Major to understand that he would not be heartbroken if Lieutenant Pelosi’s application for transfer became lost.

  Next, he tried, and failed, to have the battalion commander declare Pelosi as essential, and thus ineligible for transfer.

  “The only thing you can do is talk him out of it, Red,” the battalion commander said. “There’s nothing I can do to keep the application from going forward.”

  That had been more than a month ago, long enough for Captain McGuire to begin to hope that Pelosi’s application would never reemerge from the maw of Army administration—like so many other documents inserted into it.

  But this morning it had finally surfaced.

  And now there was one last hope…because it actually looked like MI had sort of shot themselves in the foot: When Pelosi saw what they’d done, he could, after consideration, withdraw his application for transfer. An officer could change his mind about a volunteer assignment. People decided every day, for example, that they’d rather not jump out of airplanes anymore. Since parachute duty was voluntary, they could quit. This MI assignment was also voluntary; Pelosi could change his mind about it.

  When the charges Pelosi had been laying all morning (in half the time McGuire felt was necessary to do a proper job) failed to do more than make noise, a chastened, humiliated Second Lieutenant Pelosi might be willing to listen to reason. Instead of jumping all over his ass, McGuire was going to be kind and understanding.

  When McGuire’s jeep reached the power station, he found the company scattered over a small rise two hundred yards from the chimney, some on the ground, some sitting on trucks and three-quarter-ton dozers, scrapers, and the flatbed tractors that had carried them to the site.

  When they saw the company
commander’s jeep, some of the noncoms started moving among the men, to get them up and at least looking interested.

  McGuire turned toward the chimney and saw Second Lieutenant Pelosi coming out of one of the gutted buildings. He signaled for his driver to head for the chimney.

  When he drove up, Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi saluted crisply, smiled, and said, “Good afternoon, Sir. I’m glad you could come out. I’m just about ready to blow this sonofabitch.”

  McGuire returned the salute.

  “I’m glad you waited until I came out here, Pelosi,” McGuire said, more than a little annoyed.

  Pelosi picked up on the sarcasm.

  “Sir,” he said, a little uneasily. “The Captain did not say he wished to be here when I blew it.”

  No, I didn’t, McGuire realized. It never entered my mind that you would come close to having your charges in place before fifteen or sixteen hundred.

  “No problem, Lieutenant. I’m here now. You say your charges are laid?”

  “All I have to do is hook up the detonator, Sir. This was my final look-around.”

  “Well, let me have a look,” McGuire said.

  He gestured for his driver to take the jeep over to where the company waited for the show to start, then walked around the site, following the electrical cord to the various places Pelosi had laid his charges.

  They were in much the same places he would have chosen himself, the difference being that he would have used at least twice as much explosive.

  “You’re sure you’re using enough explosive?”

  “Yes, Sir. If anything, I used a little more than I had to.”

  That, Lieutenant, is the voice of ignorance speaking.

  He noticed more wire on the ground and followed it with his eyes. The first pair disappeared under one of the derelict World War I tanks.

  “Would you care to explain that to me, Lieutenant?”

  Pelosi looked uncomfortable.

  “Sir, it was my understanding that the Captain wanted this to be a familiarization exercise for the men.”

  “And?”

  “Since I had a little extra stuff, and the time, I had some of the noncoms lay charges under those old tanks. I figured they would like to see something blow they had laid themselves.”

  “You didn’t use all the stuff—the explosives—you asked for?”

  “No, Sir,” Pelosi said, and pointed to several canvas satchels. “Even after rigging the tanks, that was left over.”

  Pelosi, you are about to make a three-star horse’s ass of yourself in front of the entire company. All they are going to see is a couple of puffs of smoke. I really hate to see that happen, but it’s too late to do anything about it.

  “Pelosi, you’re sure about what you’ve done? The men expect to see that chimney come down.”

  “It’ll come down, Sir. That’s not my first chimney.”

  OK. A dose of humiliation is often just what a second lieutenant needs.

  “I’ll give you a hand with your excess explosives,” McGuire said, and bent to pick up one of the canvas satchels. He started toward the rise where the company was waiting. Pelosi picked up the other satchel, caught up with him, and fell in step.

  “You’ll remember, Tony,” McGuire began conversationally, “that I was suspicious of it when we talked about you volunteering for the Military Intelligence assignment?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “There is no greater joy in a man’s life, Pelosi, than being able to say, “I told you so.’”

  “Sir?”

  “Your orders are in,” McGuire said, and, taking them from the lower right pocket of his field jacket, handed Pelosi a quarter-inch-thick stack of mimeograph paper.

  * * *

  HEADQUARTERS

  82nd Airborne Division

  Fort Bragg, N.C.

  5 October 1942

  SPECIAL ORDERS:

  NUMBER 207:

  EXTRACT

  56. 2nd Lt PELOSI, Anthony J 0-459967, CE, USAR, is relieved from Co “A” 76th Para Eng Bn, 82nd A/B Div this sta, and transferred to WP 4201st Army Detachment, National Institutes of Health Building, Washington D.C. AUTH: TWX Hq War Department, Subj: “Transfer of Officer” dtd 10 Oct 42. Off auth US Govt Rail Tvl. No Delay En Route Leave Is Auth. Off is not auth shipment of household goods or personal automobile, and is not authorized to be accompanied by dependents. Approp: S99-99999910.

  BY COMMAND OF MAJOR GENERAL RIDGWAY:

  OFFICIAL:

  Charles M. Scott, Jr.,

  1st Lieutenant, AGC

  Acting Adjutant

  * * *

  “The National Institutes of Health?” Lieutenant Pelosi asked wonderingly.

  “Well, I told you it was going to turn out to be something like that,” McGuire said. “But maybe, Pelosi, just maybe, I could go to the Colonel and see if he could get you out of this.”

  “You think he could?” Lieutenant Pelosi asked.

  “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to ask. I’ll have the company clerk type up a letter for you, saying that you’ve changed your mind.”

  Lieutenant Pelosi looked at Captain McGuire but said nothing.

  They were approaching the small rise. A network of wires leading from the chimney, the buildings, and the tanks came together at a waist-high wall of sandbags. Two noncoms were behind it, guarding a canvas-cased detonator.

  “You mean you want to go to the Army detachment at the National Institutes of Health?” McGuire asked incredulously.

  “What I want to do now, Sir, is take down that chimney,” Pelosi said, walking toward the firing pit. “I don’t like leaving primed charges laying around any longer than I have to.”

  If I don’t get him to change his mind now, that’s the end of it. He’ll be so humiliated that he’ll be willing to go to the National Institutes of Health as a ward boy.

  The two noncoms came to attention.

  “You two join the company on the hill,” McGuire ordered, and waited until they had gone.

  “You didn’t need them anymore, did you, Pelosi?”

  “I just wanted to know where the detonator was, Sir. I didn’t want one of the men to start doing this himself.”

  He took the detonator and began to hook wires to it.

  “Pelosi, I don’t like to see an officer, any officer, but especially one I like and in whom I see a good deal of potential, embarrassed in front of his men.”

  “Sir?”

  “The charges you laid, Lieutenant,” McGuire said sternly, “are wholly inadequate. When you twist that handle, all you’re going to get is a large bang and a puff of smoke. Now, what I’m going to do is call this off and lay them properly.”

  Pelosi met his eyes.

  “Sir, with respect, when I blow this, the chimney will come down. If it doesn’t, I’ll withdraw my application for transfer.”

  Better to have him here, even humiliated, than to humiliate him by relaying his charges and then see him go.

  “You have a deal, Lieutenant,” McGuire said.

  “With your permission, Sir?”

  McGuire nodded.

  “Fire in the Hole!” Pelosi shouted, in a surprisingly loud voice, repeated the shout twice, and then twisted the handle of the detonator.

  McGuire looked at the chimney. As he expected, there was a dull explosion, a faint suggestion of fire, and a small cloud of smoke.

  He looked at Pelosi. His face bore a look neither of surprise nor embarrassment, but of satisfaction.

  McGuire turned back toward the chimney. As he watched, as if in slow motion, the 150-foot-tall brick chimney shuddered, then seemed to fall in on itself, settling toward the ground erect, in an almost gentle motion.

  There were shouts from the men on the rise, and then applause.

  McGuire saw now a large cloud of dust at the base of the chimney as it seemed to disintegrate in front of his eyes.

  Pelosi had meanwhile connected a second set of wires to the generator. McGuire watched as he twisted th
e handle. There was now a rumbling roar from the crashing bricks, over which nothing could be heard, and the dust cloud at the base was thick, and nothing could be seen through it.

  McGuire wondered if the second set of charges had gone off. But after a moment, he judged that they had, for the cloud at the base of the chimney had grown. Pelosi was already connecting a third set of wires to the detonator.

  He waited the forty-five seconds or so necessary for most of the dust cloud on the ground to disperse enough to show everybody that the walls of the buildings were down, shattered into six-foot segments, and lying on their sides. Then he twisted the handle again.

  This time there was a series of small explosions. After each, one of the World War I tanks flew into the air, one of them at least fifty feet.

  McGuire met Pelosi’s eyes as another burst of cheers and applause came from the company on the rise.

  “The First Sergeant can collect this gear and get the company back to the Post. You can ride with me, and collect your gear, at the BOQ,” Captain McGuire said. “I’ll see about getting you a ride into Fayetteville. With a little bit of luck, you might be able to get a berth on the 7:05 to Washington.”

  II

  [ONE]

  Schloss Wachtstein

  Pomerania

  8 October 1942

  “You are talking treason, you realize,” Generalmajor Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein said softly, without emotion. The short, slight, nearly bald fifty-four-year-old very carefully placed his crystal cognac snifter on the heavy table in his library, then leaned back in his chair, raised his eyes to Generalmajor Dieter von Haas, and waited for his old friend to reply.