The Generals (22 page)

As they approached gate 13 at Washington National Airport, Mrs. Dorothy Sims realized that she was about to have another embarrassment to go with her drunken friend. She was traveling first class. People on orders under the rank of general traveled tourist. Since this nice little man beside her had a briefcase chained to his wrist, that made him, more than likely, a warrant officer courier. Warrant officer couriers traveled tourist.

“I wonder if I might see your ticket,” the nice little man said. She opened her purse and got it and gave it to him.

“It’s first class, I’m afraid,” Dorothy said. “I just—”

“I’m glad it is,” he said. “I was going to see if…What I mean is, I’m up in front, too.”

“I travel a lot about the guys, the POWS,” Dorothy said. “I just can’t take a lot of travel in tourist.”

“Be glad you can afford it,” Sandy Felter said.

He steered her past the line of people waiting to have their carry-on luggage examined. A crew-cut man in a business suit, who had been standing near the wall, took three steps toward them.

“This lady’s with me,” Felter said. The crew-cut man made a small signal to the uniformed guards. Sandy Felter propelled her through the metal detecting arch, not slowing. She sensed that he knew they were not going to be stopped to explain what made the light flash red.

They boarded the plane. He gave her the window seat and then put his briefcase on his lap. He can’t get rid of that, Dorothy thought. It must be a major nuisance.

The stewardess came to them as soon as the plane had leveled off.

“I’ll have a Scotch please,” Dorothy said. “Dewars, if you have it.”

She was surprised when the nice man said he would have the same. He was obviously on duty, and he looked like the type who would not drink on duty. She was not surprised when he took a long time before taking his first tiny sip.

“I’m very grateful to your wife,” Dorothy said. “I just couldn’t miss this airplane.”

“I’m sure Sharon was happy to be of service.”

“Still, I’m grateful,” she said, and for a moment she took hold of his hand. Then curiosity took her. “Your wife said she was an Army wife.”

“A very good one,” he said. “My name is Felter. Colonel Sanford Felter.”

He meant “Colonel,” Dorothy sensed,
bird
colonel. Full bird, not lieutenant colonel, although the customs of the service permitted lieutenant colonels to be addressed as “Colonel.”

“Tom, my husband, is a lieutenant colonel. Air Force.”

He smiled an acknowledgement.

“You said something about POWs?” he asked.

“Tom was shot down two years ago,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Tom was flying C-131s out of Pope when he got his orders,” she said. “They put him in A-20s when he went to ’Nam.”

“And you stayed at Pope?” Felter asked. Pope Air Force Base, adjoining Fort Bragg, provided air transport to the 82nd Airborne Division.

“We were living off post,” she said. “I just stayed.”

He nodded understanding.

“You’re stationed in Washington,” she said. “I guessed that because your wife saw you off.”

“A little TDY at Bragg,” he said, and lifted the briefcase. “I’m in Operations Analysis.”

Not knowing why she wanted to do it, she took her wallet from her purse, flipped it open, and showed him the picture of Tom—the last picture of Tom—standing beside his bird in a flight suit, with a pistol strapped to his side. She also had pictures of Tom, Jr. and Sue-Ann.

“You have lovely children,” he said, and took out his own wallet (from which, she saw, judging by its looseness, he had recently removed a lot of cards and whatever) and showed her his three children and his wife.

She had another two drinks before they began the letdown to Atlanta. She told him that her kids were going to meet the plane in Fayetteville—Tom Jr. having recently (on his sixteenth birthday) gotten his driver’s license. He told her that his oldest was at George Washington, and had just been accepted for the graduate school in foreign service. Neither of his sons wanted to follow their father into the service.

They would have “The Atlanta Standard,” he told her: a two hours’ wait and a mile’s walk before they could reach Piedmont 108 to Fayetteville. He had a pleasant, shy, but droll sense of humor.

When they walked into the Atlanta terminal, the public address system was asking passengers on Piedmont Flight 108 to come to the Piedmont counter in the main concourse.

She sensed that they were about to get bad news.

And even before it became obvious, she also sensed that the large, handsome, mustachioed Army colonel who got to his feet from one of the benches in the main concourse was looking for Colonel Felter.

“God doesn’t love you, Mouse,” he said. “Piedmont 108 has been scratched.”

Colonel Felter appeared to be digesting that bit of information, as he made the introduction.

“Mrs. Sims, this is Colonel Lowell.”

“How do you do?” Lowell said. He examined her a good deal more closely than she liked to be examined. I hope, she thought, that you find my parts satisfactorily arranged, Colonel. And I hope you don’t think you’ve caught Colonel Felter and me doing something we shouldn’t. And when he continued to examine her with growing approval, she thought: Why don’t you take out
your
wallet, Colonel, and show me the picture of
your
wife and kiddies?

“I wonder why they didn’t tell us in Washington?” Felter asked.

“They love to strand people in Atlanta,” Colonel Lowell said. “I’ve got a U-8, Mouse. Let’s get your luggage.”

Colonel Lowell, she noticed, was wearing a Combat Infantry Badge, parachutist’s wings, and a pair of the starred wings of an Army Senior Aviator. Tom used to say that meant Army Aviators could tell the difference between an altimeter and a propeller. Tom didn’t think much of Army Aviators. No one in the Air Force did. All three of the metal devices were unauthorized, miniature versions of the issue qualification badges. That was kind of phony, Dorothy thought. People who wore miniatures were trying to make their qualifications seem unimportant. What they were saying was “Look what a modest, highly accomplished person I am.” She realized she didn’t like Colonel Lowell at all.

But he was a pilot, and a U-8 was obviously an airplane, and Colonel Felter was obviously not going to be stranded in Atlanta. She wondered what she was going to do.

“We’ll have to do something for Mrs. Sims,” Colonel Felter said. “She has to get to Fayetteville.” Lowell didn’t say anything, but Felter must have seen something on his face, for he added, “Colonel Sims is down in ’Nam, Craig.”

His eyes lit up. Does this arrogant bastard see an opportunity in that? To give me that which I am denied by the fortunes of war?

“Mrs. Sims is obviously a friend,” Colonel Lowell said. “And that being the case, she can come with us.”

“Can you do that?” Felter asked, obviously surprised at the offer.

“Sure,” Lowell said.

“I’ll get our luggage,” Colonel Felter said.

Colonel Lowell suddenly pursed his lips, and made a shrill, loud whistle. A skycap, who did not at all like being whistled at, came over. Colonel Lowell pulled a thick wad of money from his trousers pocket and peeled off a five dollar bill. Dorothy disliked people who carried around large sums of money (look how rich I am!). She also disliked people who whistled at waiters, skycaps, and other service types.

“There’s a U-8,” Colonel Lowell said to the skycap, “a Beechcraft King Aire at Southern gate 34. Would you fetch the luggage and put it on it?” He turned to Felter. “I haven’t had a thing to eat since Washington. So why don’t we get Mrs. Sims to a telephone so she can contact the kiddies?”

He looked at his watch. Dorothy was not surprised to see that he wore a three-thousand-dollar Rolex. He was the type. While his wife wore a Timex and searched the commissary meat counter for cheap hamburger, he wore a three-thousand-dollar watch and custom-made uniforms. And two-hundred-dollar nonregulation shoes. I am supposed to throw myself in his arms, weak with adoration.

“Thirty minutes to eat, fifteen minutes to get off the ground, an hour ten in the air. Call it two hours. Have yourselves met in two hours, Mrs. Sims,” Colonel Lowell said, somewhat grandly.

She smiled thanks, but did not trust herself to speak.

Their luggage was aboard the airplane when they walked up to it. It was a larger airplane than she expected, with twin engines that she recognized as turboprops. The fuselage glistened, and inside it smelled new. And there were leather-trimmed seats and carpeting. A VIP transport.

“You can ride up in front with me if you like, Mrs. Sims,” Colonel Lowell offered.

She was about to refuse when Colonel Felter encouraged her. “Why don’t you?”

Why not indeed? Dorothy thought. As long as she had been married to Tom, he had taken her flying only twice. Both times were in a tiny single-engined Cessna not much more than an automobile with wings. It had been the kind of airplane her father would never have flown in. In fact Dorothy had never been in the cockpit of what she thought of as a real airplane, not even of one of her father’s company airplanes. Her father regarded airplane pilots (including the one she was married to) as sort of flying chauffeurs. Deciding to take advantage of what might turn out to be her only opportunity, she followed him into the cockpit. He unbuttoned his tunic, took it off, and hung it on a hook.

“Fasten the door,” he ordered. Dorothy pulled it closed. Does he really think we are now going to be alone?

He was already in his seat when he saw that she had misunderstood his orders. He left his seat, squeezed past her, and fastened the door open with a hook. She hated him for what she knew he was thinking: Dumb broad.

She took the right-hand seat and closed the seat belt. There were still some dangling straps. He looked down at her.

“The two coming over your shoulders snap into the buckle,” he said, while passing over to her a small headset with one earplug only. She slipped it over her head. He threw a switch, and the instrument panel began to glow, displaying a baffling array of gauges, indicators, and levers.

He put on a light plastic headset with a tiny microphone on a boom and spoke into it.

“Atlanta Departure Control, Army One Three Seven, at Southern 34. Request taxi and takeoff. IFR Direct Fayetteville on leaving Atlanta Departure Control.”

While waiting for the reply, Colonel Lowell fussed with gauges and switches. The airplane trembled as he started the right engine. She could see the propeller spinning silver immediately beside her. If it comes off, she thought, it will slice right through where I sit. That was a childish thought, and it embarrassed her. He started the left engine.

If the left propeller comes off, it will strike him. With a little bit of luck, right in the crotch.

The earphone spoke: “Army One Three Seven is cleared via Taxiway Three, Right, to the threshold of Runway Two Eight Left. You are number four to take off. Report on threshold.”

“Three Right, Two Eight Left. Army One Three Seven leaving Southern 34.”

The engine on her side changed pitch; and the airplane turned sharply and then began to move down a taxiway illuminated by blue lights. She saw a sign:
THREE RIGHT
. It’s just like a highway, she thought. But it wasn’t nearly as safe-feeling. There was something ominous out here.

Ahead, a brilliant white light flashed on and off from the tail of a huge jet transport. She hadn’t been aware that they mixed little airplanes with big ones. Though this one was bigger than she had expected, it was a gnat compared to the jet in front of them.

“One Three Seven Number Two on the threshold of Two Eight Left,” he said, and the plane lurched to a stop fifty feet or so from the tail of the jet in front of it.

“Atlanta Departure Control clears Army One Three Seven as number two for takeoff on Two Eight Left, behind the Delta 707. Beware of jet turbulence. Maintain two eight zero degrees. Climb to five thousand feet. Report at altitude.

“One Three Seven understands number two behind the Delta on Two Eight Left. Maintaining two-eighty. Report at five thousand.”

The jet ahead of them began to move.

“Delta One Eleven rolling,” came over the earphones, and the huge passenger jet in front of them turned onto the runway. There was a sudden blinding light as he turned his landing lights on, and then she saw the insignia and the long, long line of lighted windows moving past and away, faster and faster into the night. Suddenly the nose came up, and it left the ground.

Colonel Lowell was now looking at his wristwatch, she saw. He pushed the button that made the timer start. Dorothy was surprised that the watch actually had some practical purpose. She had been quite sure it was solely for show.

She had no idea what he was timing.

His voice came over her earphone: “Army One Three Seven rolling.”

The plane began to move. Still gathering speed, it made a right turn onto the runway between lines of white lights.

There were black scars of burned rubber from a thousand landings on the concrete; and she could see, just faintly, the lights of the Delta jet.

The rumbling noise increased, and the airspeed indicator suddenly jumped to life, indicating sixty knots, and then began to climb. At ninety knots, the nose lifted, and they were airborne. Colonel Lowell’s hands were busy throwing switches, adjusting controls. There was the rumbling hydraulics, and she knew the wheels were now folding into the fuselage.

The line of runway lights disappeared beneath them. To her left were the lights of Atlanta, and below were streetlights. And then, suddenly, all she could see out the window was a gray, impenetrable haze.

A minute or two later they broke through that; and below them was a blanket of cotton, faintly lit by moonlight.

“Atlanta Departure Control, Army One Three Seven at five thousand.”

“Roger, One Three Seven. Turn to zero four five, climb to and maintain ten thousand. Report over Athens omni. I am turning you over to Greenville, one twenty three point seven at this time.”

“One Three Seven understand zero four five, ten thousand. Report over Athens, one two three decimal seven. Thank you, Atlanta.”