W E B Griffin - BoW 04 - The Colonels Read online

  "Well, then, sir, I will see you out at the post," Wojinski said. "It was nice to see you and to meet Mrs. Hanrahan, and I hope we didn't butt in or anything."

  "Don't be silly," Hanrahan said. (Four)

  Master Sergeant Stefan Wojinski, whose intention it had been to grab a burger or something and then go bowling (just to get off the fucking post), instead drove immediately back to Fort Bragg, onto the main post, and into a small area of brick cottages behind the barracks.

  He got out of his Buick, bounded up the stairs, and hammered with a massive fist on a door.

  A tall, crew-cut man in his middle thirties, his civilian shirt stretched tight across his chest, opened the door. He was Master Sergeant Edward B. Taylor, Sergeant Major of the US. Army Special Warfare School. "I thought you said you were going bowling," he said.

  "You dumb sonofabitch," Wojinski said. "You and your "candy-ass political colonel with connections in the White House."

  "What the hell are you talking about, Ski?" Sergeant Major Taylor asked, patiently.

  "Your "absolutely straight poop' is full of shit, is what I'm talking about. I just met our new commanding officer."

  "And?"

  "It's Paul Hanrahan, Shit-between-the-ears."

  "You know him, then?"

  "I was with him in Greece," Wojinski said.

  "They don't come no better."

  "And how do you know he's taking over?" "He told me, that's how," Wojinski said.

  "And he's a good man?"

  "You bet your fucking ass, he is. I seen him work."

  "Come on in, Ski, I'll give you a beer," the sergeant major ie Wojinskis followed Taylor into the kitchen of his quarwhere he opened the refrigerator and passed out bottles of s High Life and the church key to pop the top. Mrs. Taylor, a small, firmly bodied redhead, came into the tchen.

  "I thought you were going bowling," she said, yawning. "Give me one of those, honey, will you?"

  Her husband got another bottle of beer and handed it to her. he looked at Wojinski as he did. My poop is straight, Ski. I saw the orders. He wns asdp, as commandant. You know what that means?"

  "No, I don't. All I'm telling you is that Colonel Paul Hanrahan's as good as they come. "DP means

  "Direction of the President," Ski. He was personally assigned by the President. More likely, since the President has other things on his mind, by somebody who can put a piece of paper in front of the President and have him put his signature on it without asking too many questions. This guy has friends in very high places, Ski."

  (Five) The Fayetteville Inn Fayetteville, North Carolina 0930 Hours, 29 December 1958

  Patricia Hanrahan sat on the bed and ran her fingers down her husband's face, finally tickling him under the chin. She noted that the stubble on his chin was no longer pure red; it was turning gray.

  He grimaced, making her chuckle, and then his eyes popped open.

  "Good morning," she said.

  He looked at his watch.

  "I let you sleep," she said. "You were beat. How do you feel?"

  He looked around the room. The children were nowhere in sight.

  "Like taking you up on that offer you made in Honolulu," he said.

  She gestured frantically toward the bathroom. One of the children was obviously in there.

  "Sorry about that," she said.

  "I've got to get up and get a uniform pressed," he said. She pointed to a clothes rack, where a uniform covered with dry cleaner's plastic wrap was hanging.

  "Done," she said. "And I made Paul shine your boots."

  "I bet he loved that," Hanrahan said.

  "He must be sick," she said. "He didn't even complain." "You've been busy," he said. -.

  "Busy, busy. I even have half-bought a Volkswagen."

  "Where'd you find that?"

  "There was a stack of Para Glides in the restaurant," she said. "With classifieds. A captain going to Germany's got one." "The Para Glide he said, referring to the semiofficial newspaper published for Fort Bragg personnel. "God, it's been a long time since we've seen one of those."

  "Who would have ever thunk," Patricia said, smiling, "that Second Lieutenant Hanrahan would one day come back here wrapped in the glory of a full colonel."

  "Glory," he mocked, gesturing around the room.

  "The wife, the one with the Volkswagen, is coming to show it to me," Patricia said. "If it's not falling apart, I think we should buy it.

  You want to look at it before I give her a check?" "You'll be driving it," he said. "If you want it, buy it."

  She nodded.

  "Who's in there?" he said, nodding toward the bathroom. "Rosemary," she said. "The boys found pinball machines in the lobby."

  "Rosemary," he called, raising his voice, "you have thirty seconds to get out of there." Patricia waited until he'd come out of the bathroom, his face ruddy from his shave. She watched as he sat down on the bed and put on the glossy pair of Corcoran jump boots, laced them up, and pulled his trousers on over them. She waited uptil she saw a look of concern on his face, and then tossed him a small, square cellophane-wrapped package.

  "Don't ask where I got them," Patricia said. "I'll see if I can't get you some rubber bands today." "I do believe you're blushing," he said, as concealing what he was doing from Rosemary, who was watching television he broke open the package of rubber prophylactics, unrolled them, twisted them, and tied them around the top of his jump boots.

  Then he tucked the hem of his trousers under the rubbers, "blousing"

  them.

  After that he put on his shirt, tied his tie, and took the tunic from its hanger. "Even the eagles," he said. "You done good, Patty." "And the crossed rifles," she said. "Don't miss the rifles."

  "Where the hell did you get them?"

  "I went down to Blood Alley and banged on the door of one of those junk stores until they opened it for me. I'd hate to tell you how much they cost." "Thank you," he said.

  She waited until he had put on the tunic and his hat before she went and kissed him.

  "Congratulations, Colonel," she said. "You look very nice with those eagles."

  He squeezed her buttocks and she yelped, and Rosemary turned from the TV and said, "Daddy!"

  (Six) Fort Bragg, North Carolina 1015 Hours, 29 December 1958

  The office of the commanding general of Fort Bragg, N. C., was on the ground floor of the two-story brick building (originally built as a barracks) directly across from the main post theater.

  Paul Hanrahan walked in, and the sergeant major stood up.

  "Good morning, sir," he said.

  "My name is Hanrahan, Sergeant," he said. "I'm reporting in.

  "We've been expecting you, sir," the sergeant said. "Can I offer you a cup of coffee, Colonel?" "Thanks, no," Hanrahan said.

  The sergeant pushed a lever on his intercom, and lowered his head toward it.

  "Colonel Hanrahan is here, sir. There was no reply, but in a moment a stocky lieutenant colonel wearing parachutist's wings and the insignia of the General Staff Corps came out of an inner office, his hand extended.

  "Welcome to Fort Bragg and the Airborne Center, Colonel Hanrahan," he said. "My name is Field, and I'm SGS." (Secretary of the General Staff)

  "Thank you, Colonel," Hanrahan said. "It's good to be home."

  "Sergeant Major, would you see if the general is free?" The sergeant major left the room, and returned immediately. "The general will see you, Colonel Hanrahan," he said. He held open a door, and then trotted ahead of Hanrahan to open a second one.

  "Come on in, Colonel," a voice called.

  Hanrahan marched in, stopped three feet from the general's desk, and raised his hand in a crisp salute.

  "Colonel Hanrahan reporting to the commanding general, sir," he said.

  The general, a tall, lithe man with somewhat sunken features was wearing the three stars of a lieutenant general. His name was H.H.

  "Triple H" Howard. Although Hanrahan knew who he was, he had never met him before.<
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  General Howard returned the salute and smiled, then geshired Hanrahan into a chair. "You'll have some coffee, Colonel?" General Howard asked.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "How do you take it, Colonel?" the sergeant major asked. "Black, please."

  "How was your trip?" General Howard asked. "Tiring, sir."

  "They take care of you all right at the guest house?" General Howard asked, and then went on without waiting for an answer. "We had no word on when you were coming. Just you were." "We took a motel in town, sir," Hanrahan said.

  The coffee, served in fine china cups, was immediately de, ered, and the sergeant major left, closing the door after him. "I don't recall, Colonel," General Howard said, "having met you before."

  "No, sir, I don't believe we have met."

  "And your assignment as commandant of the Special Warfare School was, what shall I say, unexpected."

  "I was surprised myself, sir," Hanrahan said.

  "And I was at a further disadvantage," General Howard went on. "I couldn't even check on your records."

  "I believe they're maintained by DC SOPS when you're on a assignment," Hanrahan said. (Deputy Chief of Staff, erat ions Military Advisory Group)

  "Yours are being maintained by DCSINTEL," General lo ward said. (Deputy Chief of Staff, Intelligence)

  "I didn't know that, sir," Hanrahan said, genuinely surprised. "You seem surprised," General Howard said. "Yes, sir, I am," Hanrahan said.

  "Obviously, there are some things some people have elected to tell either of us," General Howard said. And then he

  "From outward appearances, Colonel, let me say that seem to be fully qualified to run the school."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "When did you graduate?"

  "Class of "40, sir."

  "Who were you with? 82nd, 11th, 101st?"

  "I was with the 82nd when it was the 82nd Infantry, General. In the Parachute Test Battalion."

  "Oh," General Howard said, obviously pleased. "You go back that far, do you? And you stayed with the division through the war?"

  "No, sir. I didn't serve with a division during the war."

  "You've got combat jump stars on your wings," General Howard said, making it more of a question than a statement.

  "Ijumped into Greece, twice, with the 055," Hanrahan said.

  "And that's considered a combat jump?" General Howard said. "I didn't realize that."

  The implication was that jumping behind enemy lines wasn't really a combat jump. Combat jumps were made en masse by soldiers not by spies who sneaked in someplace. Hanrahan was not surprised. He had heard it all before.

  "Yes, sir, it is."

  "And you got the CIB the same place?"

  "No, sir. I got that after the war."

  "In Korea?"

  "No, sir, in Greece."

  General Howard debated a moment about asking for an explanation, but then changed his mind.

  "Well," General Howard said, "sometimes you have to go on first impressions, Colonel, and let me tell you that somebody who has been airborne since before it was airborne, and has subsequently earned a DSC and a Silver Star and a CIB, makes a very fine first impression."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Franldy, Colonel, when we heard where you were coming from, we thought they had all gone mad and were turning the Special Warfare School over to one of those unconventional warfare nuts."

  That's just what they've done. General. Guilty as charged.

  "I see," Hanrahan said.

  "Don't misunderstand me, Colonel," General Howard said. "There is a place for that sort of thing. I have the highest respect for what the OSS did in War II. But that was then, and this is, after all, Fort Bragg, the Airborne Center." "Yes, sir," Hanrahan said.

  "I'm very happy to have the Special Warfare School here at Bragg," General Howard said, "as part, so to speak, of the airborne family. I think of it as sort of a continuation of the Rangers, and I'm convinced that, in proper hands, it can make a contribution of great value to airborne." "I understand, sir," Hanrahan said. All too fucking well.

  "I was a Ranger myself," General Howard said. "I don't think there was ever a finer body of troops anywhere." "I haven't had that privilege, sir," Hanrahan said.

  "Well, maybe we can get you Ranger qualified while you're here," General Howard said. "Most of my senior officers have found time to go through the course."

  "Perhaps I will be able to find the time, sir."

  It was Paul Hanrahan's studied judgment that the World War II deployment of the Rangers had been a stupid expenditure of assets. To begin with, parachutists were generally more highly qualified than any other troops. And then rangers were selected from the ranks of parachutists, intensively trained, and sent into situations where extremely high casualties were expected. In his opinion, it was World War fl's version of Balaclava, ordering men into the valley of death, into the mouth of cannon. In this, at least, Paul Hanrahan was a disciple of George S. Patton, Jr." who believed the function of soldiers was to kill the enemy, not to die themselves no matter how gloriously.

  General Howard smiled at him and nodded, and Hanrahan knew he was about to be dismissed.

  "I know you've got a lot to do, Colonel," General Howard said. "To settle your family, and that you're anxious to see your new headquarters."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You know where it is? Smokebomb Hill?"

  "I think I can find Smokebomb-Hill, sir," Hanrahan said.

  "Yes, of course. You've been here before."

  "Yes, sir."

  "There is one thing more, however," General Howard said. He pushed his intercom levers. "Will you bring in the flowers, Sergeant Major?"

  Flowers?

  The sergeant major entered the office a moment later, literally hidden behind an enormous floral display. He set it on the floor and adjusted the legs of its metal easel so that it would stand alone.

  There was a floral representation of a horseshoe, large enough to hold, inside it a floral representation of the national colors. A purple ribbon, six inches wide, was stretched across the whole thing. Onto it had been glued in gilt letters the words, "To Our Leader. Welcome Home."

  It was garish and ugly, and Hanrahan tried and failed to guess what it had cost. At least a hundred. bucks, he thought. Maybe twice that much. There was no question whatever in his mind who had sent it.

  "They arrived this morning, Colonel," General Howard said, disapprovingly. "Addressed to you, in care of the commanding general." "I see," Hanrahan said.

  "There is a card," the general said, and the sergeant major handed him a small envelope. Hanrahan opened it. The card read, "The Duke and the Mouse." The Duke and the Mouse my ass. The Duke sent this god damned thing, and signed Felter's name to it. Felter has more sense than to do something like this.

  "One of my former officers has more money, General, than common sense," Hanrahan said.

  "And a very strange sense of humor," General Howard said. "Shall I ask the sergeant major to dispose of it?"

  "No, sir, thank you. I'll take it with me." "As you please," General Howard said, stiffly. Then he went on: "Feel free, Hanrahan, to call upon me at any time for anything I can do to help you get settled."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "If there is nothing further, Colonel, you are dismissed," General Howard said.

  Hanrahan saluted, the general returned his salute, and then Hanrahan picked up the floral display and carried it out of the post commander's office.

  (Seven)

  He knocked a good many of the flowers off the floral display getting it onto the back seat of the rented Chevrolet. Then -he got behind the wheel and started out for Smokebomb Hill, the portion of the post on which the Special Warfare School was located.

  Impulsively, he went the long way through the 82nd Airborne Division area, and drove slowly, looking at the routine army activity. The army, he thought as he often did, had more to do with hauling garbage and passing out groceries and standing
in line for mail and laundiy than it did with close order drill or practicing

  "The Platoon in the Attack."

  And he wondered again, as he often had, if he had made a mistake nearly seventeen years before when he had taken the offer to go to -the Office of Strategic Services and leave the 82nd Airborne. If he'd lived through the 82nd's campaigns, and a surprising number of his peers had, he would have had an entirely different career than he had had. He would have spent a lot of time here at Bragg, and his kids would have grown up American, and not international gypsies.