Chapter 3

Colonel Standford Minot saved the staff study and logged off the computer. Unplugging the external drive, he stored it in the safe. The drive contained the document that might get his career back on track. He was careful to lock it away each day after he finished working with it. Some of the material was classified, and Colonel Minot was very careful when dealing with classified information.

He had spent weeks gathering data for this report. It was the best study he’d ever done, he was sure of it. He’d begun by gathering reports, then organized the information they contained. He’d also looked for an equation that could anchor the report, and finally he’d come up with one. There was a nice rising curve of rounds expended per engaged trooper. He plotted this against enemy casualties, then plotted the results again against noncombatant casualties and collateral damage. The graphs supported his conclusion that moving back down the curve to fewer rounds expended in combat would improve logistic efficiency while reducing collateral casualties and property damage. Those cost the Army a lot of money; survivors and relatives were quick to file claims.

Colonel Minot was certain that cutting back on rounds expended wouldn’t reduce combat efficiency materially. There might be a slight reduction, possibly a few more friendly casualties, but logistics was also an important consideration. After all, the saying was that amateurs study tactics while professionals study logistics. Colonel Minot knew there was a lot of truth in that saying. Most casualties survived anyway if they got to the hospital in time. He briefly considered that some of those casualties required expensive long-term care, then decided this was not something he wanted to include in his report.

This one, unlike the other studies he’d written, would go right to the Pentagon. His other staff studies were in a file cabinet somewhere, still here in the command, but just maybe this one would finally get him out of the career box he’d found himself in. Maybe he could transfer to where he could do something substantial!

Up or out for Colonels left little time to achieve anything noteworthy; even then, you had to be somewhere you could get noticed. Promotion to general officer involved luck as much as skill. Make general or retire; there were a lot of colonels, but few slots for generals. Most inevitably retired, whether they were prepared to do so or not. Lieutenant colonels also lived with up-or-out, and there were even more of them than there were colonels. Colonel Minot had motivation; he wasn’t ready for a porch and a rocking chair.

So the patient searches had been done, most of them after his daily tasks were finished. There had been lists of ammunition to be collected, casualty counts of the enemy, and estimates of casualties which hadn’t actually been verified. He had calculated the costs of shipping the ammunition and the diversion of space that might have been used for other purposes. The report was almost done. The only thing that remained was to formulate a few recommendations on training and new operational guidelines. As soon as he finished those, he could write the final summary. A conservative approach would be better received, something to keep in mind when writing the report. Then he would send it off and see how it helped in the decision process; more importantly, on a personal level, he would see how the report was received. Maybe consider what might be achieved if the funds made available by those new operational guidelines could be used to increase local hires, maybe do more work on infrastructure? But it was all very tiring, and a break from the keyboard would help him start fresh when he began the next phase. It would be good to see how things were going around his area of responsibility, and anyway he felt like a small celebration.

He had been made Club Officer (over mild objection; he hadn’t wanted the job, but it wouldn’t do to seem uncooperative) and it would be nice to see what his assistants were stocking this month for senior officers and visiting VIP’s. Use of alcohol was also officially discouraged in deference to religious beliefs of the host country, but senior officers could clearly work better if they had a few creature comforts. Not to mention that senior junketers, congressional VIP’s, cabinet secretaries and undersecretaries, and other important people wanted better than they could otherwise find in this backward country. Their good opinion was important; if a friendly atmosphere with a little social lubricant helped that opinion, it was a win-win for Colonel Minot. And he wouldn’t be leaving the compound, so no one outside a small number of senior officers would know he’d had a belt or two. Colonel Minot checked his schedule a final time, glanced down at his belly, and went to work out. He would visit the Club later.

He changed to shorts and a T-shirt in the dressing room reserved for senior officers before finding an unused section of the gym. He spent as much time as he could spare in the gym these days, and even so he barely held his own against creeping pudginess. Once, he’d not have been concerned, but the Army was death now on overweight soldiers. Some had been unceremoniously booted. Being out of shape physically ran a close second.

He could always retire if it came to that, but still, there was that chance of a star and an even more remote chance at a responsible command somewhere. Colonel Minot did not want to retire while still a colonel.

A number of his contemporaries had already been selected for brigadier general. Granted, they were often members of the combat arms, infantry or artillery or armor, but it was logisticians such as Colonel Minot who made sure they had what they needed to do the job. Thinkers and planners were important too. Minot had actually begun as an artilleryman, but it had been made clear to him that his future in that branch was limited. Nothing serious, just a matter of shells from a 155mm cannon that landed outside the range area. Lieutenant Minot had been in command of the gun platoon, but had managed to deflect blame so that nothing stuck to his official record. Still, some might remember what he had done, so when opportunity presented he had exercised an option and changed branches. The change didn’t look great on his record, but it could be excused and anyway, it was a long time ago.

He had worked hard since then and amassed an excellent string of OER’s, Officer Efficiency Reports. He’d punched a few tickets along the way as well, including an airborne badge. He had medically failed Ranger School (and not reapplied when the condition cleared up), but the medical report was in his record to explain the failure to finish. A Ranger badge was a clear plus, because many general officers either had been through the course or knew enough about it to respect those who had, but the lack of such wasn’t a career-killer. Meanwhile, he had gained a reputation as a good logistician, but due to his assignments he simply had been unable to add a good record in command of troops. Staff duty, administration, those were where his greatest talents lay.

Once, that would have seen him retired as a lieutenant colonel; that had happened to the great majority of his contemporaries. But Minot had prevailed; he had finally gotten his eagle, and now he wanted more. So when there was need for an officer to take additional duties, those often fell to Minot. He didn’t complain, just did the additional jobs as best he could. But ‘additional duties’ would not get him that coveted flag with the white star! It wouldn’t see him called “General”, it wouldn’t see him commanding a base somewhere, perhaps even heading up a joint command of some type.

Administrators were valued in wartime; one had but to consider the record of Eisenhower! But in an era when wars weren’t ‘declared’, when there were many colonels but few places to employ them ... Colonel Stanford Minot was feeling the cold wind of an incipient and undistinguished end to his career.

He could always find civilian employment, of course. Colonels seldom remained out of work. There were companies who had done business with the Army, they were always looking for senior officers. Many colonels retired, then moved across the street to work for those they’d been responsible for supervising only a few months before. And it might take that long just for the retirement paperwork to be approved, the various forms executed, and the accounts he was responsible for audited. Fortunately, Colonel Minot kept those in excellent condition. The records were immaculate. Standford Minot respected records and paperwork.

But it was the disappointment of it all. He could do a good job as a general officer if only he got the chance!

He became the officer in charge of the command’s Officers Club. Unlike most such, this one was small enough that junior officers were encouraged not to attend,, and was only one of the ways it differed significantly from clubs with official standing. The ordinary post O-club, as they were known, often required junior officers to be members. Failure to join saw the miscreant viewed with great suspicion, even though alcohol use was expected to be no greater than moderate nowadays. Such a lieutenant or warrant officer would find himself replying-by-endorsement to explain his failure to support the club. A bold officer might object and say so when he RBI’d the communication, replied by indorsement. He might even claim to be a teetotaler, but that was rarely good enough. O-clubs served food as well as drinks, and moonlighting sergeants often worked behind the bar or in the kitchen. Good sergeants took care to see that popular officers did not overindulge. They might listen as mildly inebriated officers uttered the occasional indiscretion, but they knew to keep their mouth shut about what they learned. Moonlighting sergeants liked the extra pay they got from working at the O-club.

But Colonel Minot had no facilities for such a club, and besides, there might be trouble if the host country found out. Best to keep it low-key. So an unused space had been found, unused by virtue of quietly moving the office that had occupied it elsewhere. There was always room to fit a desk or two somewhere, so the office furniture had gone too. Soldiers were accustomed to unexplained moves, they happened all the time, so no questions had been asked.

Certain senior officers subscribed to a fund that bought the first shipment of alcohol, very high quality goods. They had been repaid from sales, and the profits had funded new purchases since that time. An honor system substituted for the moonlighting enlisted men and it worked, because no one wanted to offend Colonel Minot.

A few tables and chairs from the dining facility completed the furnishings, and an original painting (done by a sergeant from Operations) added a touch of class. There was a bowl for payment, the kitty, and the honor system was pay-as-you-drink. Senior officers didn’t feel the urge to violate the honor system; they had far too much to lose to sneak a shot of booze without paying for it. Those officers also didn’t want to chance running afoul of Colonel Minot. He was known to be less concerned with the careers of juniors than he was with his own. So the honor system worked, and there was always enough of a profit to pay for new bottles when it was time to restock. A junketing Congressman had a drink in the Club, sharing the premises with a couple of officers whose home-of-record was in the state he represented. The Congressman made it a point to commend the Club’s hospitality to the commanding general and Colonel Minot got a letter of commendation for his files. After that, the Club became a going concern.

Senior officers, including the colonel, liked having a place they could unwind.

The bar was a table in the back with two or three opened bottles of choice hooch, most often scotch and brandy. There might be Russian vodka from time to time and occasionally tequila, but senior officers preferred scotch and brandy. There was usually a bottle of good bourbon around for the occasional visiting Congressman, but it wasn’t popular enough to be out on the table. Besides, the single bottle of Pappy van Winkle Family Reserve they’d bought had been horribly expensive, too much even for senior officers. Minot had simply ordered it, based on its reputation, and had quietly made up the difference in price beyond what had been expected with personal funds. Add a few bottles of mixers, some cubed ice stored in a cooler, and this was the essence of the bar, even if the senior officers referred to it as a ‘Club’.