Chapter 54: Plans and Changes

Lieutenants don’t run batteries, just like lieutenants don’t run companies. Captains do those things. Or at least in peacetime, they do. Things change rapidly when the bullets start flying. If you survive, you can get promoted quickly. During the Napoleonic Wars, the British officer corps had a ghastly toast when drinking, ‘Here’s to bloody wars and sickly seasons!’, since combat and disease were the two guaranteed methods for openings in the chain of command above you! During World War II you had very young and junior officers running things, with second lieutenants running companies and captains running battalions. If you had talent, and didn’t fuck up or get killed, you could move up the ladder. The rank would catch up eventually. In fact, our brigade commander had graduated from West Point in 1964 on the eve of the big buildup in Vietnam and had been promoted to first lieutenant after a year, captain after one more year, and to major after just two years as a captain.

War is planned by old guys and executed by young guys. It’s one of the ugly truths about the military.

In peacetime, things moved a lot slower. After the war was over, a lot of those quickie captains ended up waiting up to eight years to make up their time in grade. I had been a first lieutenant for about a couple of years by now. Realistically I wouldn’t expect to be promoted to captain for at least another year. It was probable that I would end my four-year commitment as a first lieutenant executive officer of an artillery battery.

Things didn’t quite work out that way. In 1979, shortly after I became the exec, Captain Harris transferred to Fort Rucker for flight training! I have no idea where he had gotten the desire to fly choppers. In my heart of hearts, I hoped he would be happier there than he had been at Bragg. Maybe he’d do better there. By Halloween we had a new commanding officer, Captain Waslow. We continued to improve in our rankings, but Captain Waslow resigned his commission in January 1980 and left the service to find a job in the private sector. His replacement, Captain Ozawa, had a lot of promise, but ended up in a very nasty divorce and left us in April.

Not only was the battery going through a lot of upheaval with the quick changes, but I was getting a lot of unrated time, since neither Captain Waslow nor Captain Ozawa were around long enough to qualify as my rater. You needed at least 60 days working for a new boss for him to rate you, and neither ended up doing the paperwork. Since I rated the other lieutenants and the battery commanders were the senior raters, it was only me that was affected.

I think at that point the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Buller, simply decided to leave well enough alone. Bravo Battery had become, by any measure, the best battery in the division. We had fewer problems in our drops and landings, set up faster, fired faster, and were more accurate. We had a higher reenlistment rate and fewer problems with the civilian cops. We even had a lower incidence of social disease. This was not to say that the other two batteries were fuckups, far from it. We were simply the best battalion in the DivArty, and we were the best battery in the battalion. Buller simply left me in charge, as an exec without a commander, and gave me another second lieutenant to fill in. Buller would rate me.

Marilyn was happy for me but didn’t really understand. There is simply something about a line command, having the authority and the responsibility, that you just don’t get in staff positions. The closest I could remember was when I was a sales manager for Lefleur Homes and bossed my own sales lot. This was even better. It’s not for everyone. My father only wanted a staff job; even when he had engineers reporting to him, he stayed away from line positions. He never understood my hankering for line jobs. He had a saying, “Management would be great, if it wasn’t for the people!”

In early January 1981 I was called to battalion. Now that I was effectively in charge of the battery, this wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Once in the battalion office, one of the sergeants knocked on the commander’s door. At a shout of ‘Enter!’, I was ushered inside. Lieutenant Colonel Buller wasn’t too starchy, but I noticed another officer, another light bird in there with him, so I marched up to his desk and came to attention, and then saluted.

The colonel returned the salute and said, “At ease, Doc. Have a seat.”

“Yes, sir.” I sat down and looked over at the other lieutenant colonel. He had most of the same fruit salad that Lieutenant Colonel Buller had - some ribbons from Viet Nam, a Bronze Star, similar qualifications - but there were differences, too. He was Signal Corps, for one thing, was a straight leg (not jump trained), and had shoulder insignia indicating he worked in the Military District of Washington. He was from the Pentagon, in other words.

“This is Colonel Halliwell.”

“Sir.” I stuck out my hand and Colonel Halliwell shook it. I turned back to the battalion commander and gave him a curious look.

“Doc, what are your plans for the future? What was your commitment to the Army?” he asked.

I blinked at that. Whatever I had been expecting, this wasn’t it. “Four years, sir. I guess I haven’t thought about it. It will be four years this summer.”

“Were you planning on staying in after that?”

I opened my mouth, and then shut it again. After a few more seconds, I answered, “I just haven’t given it any thought, sir. I’ve enjoyed my time here, but I’ll have to talk it over with Marilyn. I just haven’t thought about it.” I gave him an embarrassed shrug. We should have talked about it before, but we just never got around to it.

Colonel Buller looked over at Colonel Halliwell, who swung around in his chair towards me. “Lieutenant, when your four years is up, you’ll have done four years with Battery B. Let me ask you a question. Is there anything in an Airborne battery you don’t already know how to do by now?”

I glanced over at Colonel Buller, but then said, “Honestly? No.”

Colonel Halliwell nodded. “Correct answer. You’ll have had the battery as an exec and de facto commander for three years by then. The Army is not going to leave you here to make major or colonel in the 319^th. It’s time for you to move on.”

Colonel Buller added, “Colonel Halliwell is right. Oh, don’t get me wrong. If we end up dropping into the Fulda Gap or some damn place, I’d want you here. You could probably handle the battalion without a problem. So could your counterparts, too. But since that probably isn’t going to happen, what are your plans for the future? Were you planning to make this a career?”

I was silent, and I could feel the eyes boring in on me. I shook my head. “I just haven’t thought that much about it. I like it, the Army I mean, and I think I could do it. I have to talk to Marilyn about it.” Colonel Halliwell gave me a curious look at that. “Sir, Marilyn knew I was going to be in for four years when we met, and when we married, but she didn’t sign up for a career. I have to talk to her about it.”

“Fair enough. Interested in hearing about why I came down from the Pentagon to talk to you?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, actually I would. No disrespect, sir, but what’s a Pentagon light bird doing coming down here and talking to a two-bit artillery lieutenant? There must be a hundred of us here on the base.”

Colonel Buller snorted and seemed to be suppressing a laugh. Colonel Halliwell simply smiled. “Probably. Here’s a few more questions for you. How many of those two-bit artillery lieutenants have doctorates in applied mathematics? - Yes, I know what the nickname is for - How many of them made battery commander in under four years? How many have had an unblemished series of OERs marked ‘Outstanding, Recommended for Promotion and early attendance at CGS’? Answer me those questions, will you. You know that answer.”

I hadn’t really given it any thought. My biggest concern at times was simply blending in, but it looked like I hadn’t been that successful. “I guess I never gave my career much thought, sir. I just wanted to do the best I could.”

“Why is that, Carl?” asked my commander. “Half of those other lieutenants don’t think of anything but their careers! Why don’t you?”

I looked at Lieutenant Colonel Buller. “It’s hard to say, sir. It’s just that ... sir, you get out of life what you put into it. If I put a hundred percent into something, I usually get that and more back. I’ve tried to do that here. If it weren’t working, somebody would have let me know, of that, I’m sure.”

“Well, it’s time for you to give it some thought. Colonel Halliwell came down here to speak to you about that, so give it some thought.”

I turned back to Lieutenant Colonel Halliwell. “Sir?”

“There’s a job at Fort Sill, in what we call ‘The Board’, but which is more accurately named the Fire Support Test Directorate. It’s not precisely a lab job, but it works with the labs, which is where your PhD comes in handy. They do live fire testing of the various rounds they develop. You’d be working with different batteries assigned to III Corps Artillery - 105s, 155s, some 8 inchers, even a recoilless rifle or two - testing new rounds and explosives. For that we need somebody with active experience. Since we don’t have any captains with combat experience at the moment, we looked for top end men in the ready divisions, like the 82^nd. Your name is at the top of that list.”

“Huh! I’ll be honest, that’s sort of what I thought I’d be doing when I graduated. I figured I’d be in a lab somewhere. The ways of the Army are mighty and mysterious, I guess.”

“I think it was your jump training that landed you here instead,” he commented. “The timing probably worked out to be here instead of there.

“I thought they did that sort of thing at Aberdeen,” I commented.

“They do, but not much. Most live fire testing goes on at either Sill or the Yuma Proving Grounds. It will involve some travel back and forth to both places, not much, but some. Figure once a month, maybe a bit more.” I nodded in understanding. He continued, “You know, the Army has been watching you for years now.”

“The Army has been watching me?” I asked, incredulous. Leaving aside the math doctorate, I really was just one more Airborne artillery lieutenant.

“Very much so. Remember that article in the Paraglide, back when you were still a green second john?” This confused me, but I nodded that I remembered it. “The PIO captain wanted to run a larger version in the Army Times. Did he ever tell you that?”

“Yes, sir, but it never ran. I figured it wasn’t newsworthy or something. I haven’t thought about that for years,” I told him.

Again, Colonel Buller snorted and rolled his eyes. Colonel Halliwell continued, “He submitted the article, but G-2 killed it. What you told him about, the use of computers in the Army of the future, and coming developments in weapons and training, that was so accurate that it was buried and classified. You were spot on with what the weapons and development labs are working on, and we want you to be part of it.”

“Wow! When would this happen?”

“This fall. I think you’ll be available to transfer in September or October.”

Colonel Buller said, “When you leave here, you’ll be promoted to captain. This is a two-year slot, after which you’ll transfer out. The last guy who did it went to CGS. The current guy is going to do a tour as an instructor at West Point when he finishes. I think you’ll do well at CGS when your tour is up.”

The Command and General Staff College was the Army’s grad school. It was a very prestigious one-year course at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and its graduates ended up in senior staff positions. Battalion or regimental commands went to officers who had been to CGS; it was a requirement. I could even earn another master’s degree in something national security related. “Can captains go to CGS, sir?” I asked.

He smiled as he answered. “Senior captains, certainly. Junior captains like you would be, that would be unusual. Even more unusual would be making major by the time you got out of CGS that way.”

I blinked and sat back and stared at the two men. A two-year R&D tour and I make major at the age of twenty-eight! Even more, I would probably enjoy the hell out of both the R&D tour and CGS. If I was thinking of going career, this was a no-brainer! I could retire after twenty as a full bull colonel!

After a few seconds, I said, “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting this. Sir, I need to discuss this with my wife. If it was just up to me, I’d probably take you up on it, but it’s like I told you before. Marilyn knew she was getting in for four years, but I never talked to her about going career.”

“When can I have an answer?”

“This time tomorrow, sir.”

He handed me a card with a Washington prefix on the phone number. “Let the colonel know, and then call me either way.”

“Yes, sir.” I stood up. It was obvious I was being dismissed. “Sir, one thing. No matter what Marilyn says, thank you for considering me. It’s an honor. If I say yes, I won’t let you down.” I shook his hand and then came to attention and left.

I couldn’t concentrate that day. My mind was simply whirling with the possibilities. I had to get out of the office, and I went home early. The apartment was empty when I got home. It was about 1630, so I had about an hour before Marilyn got home. She had a late class today, and there had been a practicum in the morning, some sort of student teaching thing.

I changed into some old khakis and a Hawaiian shirt, and then went into the kitchen. Marilyn had left some pork chops thawing on the counter in their wrapper, so they were thawed. If I left it up to her, we’d be doing something exotic like Shake-N-Bake and canned peas. I could do better.

I started scrounging up the ingredients and smiled to myself remembering the first time Marilyn tried to make pork chops. It was about a month after the wedding, and Marilyn decided to cook dinner for me, and have it ready to serve when I got home. I drove into the apartment complex and found a fire engine and an Emergency Services truck parked in front of the apartment, lights flashing, with people outside milling around, and black smoke billowing from our apartment! Marilyn was standing outside looking very confused. I jumped out and ran over to her, to wrap an arm around her. “What happened?” I asked.

Just then, one of the firemen came running out of the apartment, carrying a blackened pan, and he ran up to one of the EMTs. He loudly asked if they wanted to pronounce the victim dead on the scene, or if they needed to transport it to the hospital for an expert opinion. While the firemen laughed and the neighbors started heading home, I just buried my face in my hands and listened as my wife cried and tried to explain what had happened. She had put the chops into the oven and then fallen asleep and was woken by the smoke detector.

Eventually I just gave the firemen and the EMTs my business card and told them to make sure I was on their mailing list the next time they were looking for donations. Then I took Marilyn back inside and we aired out the place and ordered a pizza.

That was even better than the time Marilyn set fire to the chemistry lab over at MVCC with a Bunsen burner. Marilyn has an awesome and unnatural ability in either a lab or a kitchen. For her, they are both places involving great danger and toxic substances.

There was the time she used hazelnut creamer to make scrambled eggs (hey, it’s white, right?), the time she heated up the chili and served it over spaghetti (both are red, never mind those bean thingies), the pasta she decided didn’t really need to be stirred all that much and emerged from the hot water as a single giant lump, and so on. The list was endless! The only thing she ever really knew how to cook was Michigan Sauce, a sort of meat sauce popular in upstate New York on hot dogs and hamburgers, and very, very tasty. She could also bake pastries and breads fine. Otherwise, you took your life in your hands with her cooking.

So today I split the pork chops in two by cutting a long and deep pocket in the sides. Then I diced up a little onion and celery and mixed it into some breadcrumbs and made a stuffing, which I packed into the pockets. I took some gravy mix and doctored it up with some broth and diced mushrooms and set that on the stove. I grabbed some broccoli and pulled out the eggs to make a Hollandaise sauce. Finally, I grabbed a tin of rolls and put them on a baking tray.

Marilyn came home as I was starting to prepare the broccoli. “You’re home early,” she commented, adding a hello kiss in the bargain.

“Worried I might find you getting into trouble?” I said with a smile.

“I’m not the one in this place likely to get in trouble! What’s for dinner?”

“Stuffed pork chops with mushroom gravy, broccoli with Hollandaise sauce, and hot biscuits and butter,” I announced proudly. “And if you’re especially nice to me, some chardonnay.”

“What do you mean by nice?” she asked. I simply waggled my eyebrows, and Marilyn laughed. “No, no, no! That’s only for the sake of procreation!”

“Are you trying to tell me your parents only did it thirteen times?”

“Exactly!”

“Well that explains it. Maybe if they had practiced a little more, they would have gotten some better results,” I remarked.

Marilyn gave me a raspberry and then said she was going to change.

I turned on the oven to preheat and went back to cutting the head of broccoli apart. Timing is everything in cooking. Proper ingredients, too. Marilyn didn’t understand either concept. She was of the ‘just as good’ school of culinary delights. Ever read in a cookbook those emergency substitutions? If you don’t have butter, you can use margarine, it’s just as good. If you don’t have cream, you can use milk, it’s just as good. Well, if you do that a half dozen times in a meal, it’s just as good as cardboard!

Marilyn didn’t immediately return to the kitchen, so I figured she was taking a quick shower. With luck, she would return before dinner was ready, but not early enough to want to help.

I put the pork chops in the oven and started up a double boiler to steam the veggies in. Everything was under control by the time my wife returned. She must have decided some practice was in order, since she had changed into a very short button front denim skirt and had a sleeveless blouse on, but only tied together and not buttoned. She was barefoot and looked very young and small.

I smiled at her. “I like the outfit.”

Marilyn grinned back. “I figured you might.”

I nodded and smiled. “I like how you wear the shirt.”

“Men! That’s all you ever think about!”

I moved over to her and backed her up against the kitchen table. I slipped my hands inside her open shirt and fondled her tits. “I was a bottle baby. I have issues!”

Marilyn moaned happily for a moment, and then pushed me away. “Issues!” She shrugged her shirt closed but smiled at me.

I went back to cooking. “A businessman was hiring a secretary, and he had three choices. The first woman was a fantastic typist; she could type over a hundred words a minute! The second was incredibly organized and could make a filing system sit up and beg. The third one was brilliant on the telephone and could talk anybody into anything. So, who did he hire?” I asked.

“Who?”

“The one with the big tits!”

Marilyn shrieked at that and threw a wet dishtowel at me. “You’re an awful person. I should never have married you!” Then she laughed and said, “I talked to your sister today. I bet she would agree with me.”

“Probably,” I nodded. “What’s the news from Lutherville?”

Marilyn told me as I opened the bottle of wine. Following the debacle with the wedding present, my mother had cut all ties with us. Only Suzie stayed in touch, and only when she was alone or off at college. She had even told us that in a bizarre touch, Mom had removed my pictures from the ‘Wall of Heroes’ and elsewhere in the house. It reminded me of the ancient Egyptian custom where a disgraced individual would have their name removed from everything public, although that’s a whole lot harder when the name is chiseled in stone! On the other hand, with Hamilton’s diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia, it might make sense. If reminders of me set him off, removing those reminders might keep him under control. I wasn’t sure what to think of that.