"Yes, sir. I was there. None of my officers, my fellow POWs, told the Russians I’d not only been taken from the Stalag but had in my possession photographs and other material which implicated the Russians in the murder of five thousand Polish officers, including two hundred and fifty cadets, none of them older than fifteen.”
“Christ, you hear these stories, but . . .”
“Well, there I was,” Bellmon went on, as if eager to relate the story, “at 1330, 8 April 1945, in a stone stable in Zwenkau—in the dark; the Russians had closed all the doors, and there were no windows—with two hundred thirty-eight other American officers, all prisoners of the Russians, with what I had seen at Katyn running through my mind, when I thought I was losing my mind. . . .”
“I can understand that,” the Chairman said.
“First I heard a trumpet,” Bellmon went on. “Playing ‘When the Saints Come Marching In’—and then the enormous door of the stable came crashing down, and a half-track with a multiple .50-caliber machine-gun mount backed into the barn, and I thought the decision had been made to eliminate us all. Then I saw who the gunner was. He was about six feet three, weighed a good 250 pounds, and was as black as the ace of spades. And standing beside him was another enormous black trooper, blowing ‘The Saints’ on his trumpet.”
“Elements of Colonel Philip Sheridan Parker’s 393rd tank destroyer regiment,” the chief said. “I’d heard that story, of course, Bob. But I had no idea until just now you were one of those he liberated.”
Bellmon nodded.
“The half-track moved out of the barn,” he went on, “and I staggered outside into the sunlight. My eyes grew accustomed to the light, and I saw another half-dozen tracks, and a sea of black faces, and in the middle of them, standing next to Colonel Parker, carrying a Thompson submachine gun, one skinny little white first lieutenant, who stood about five feet five.”
He paused and looked at the Chairman.
“That was the first time I ever saw Sandy Felter, Admiral.”
“What was he doing there?” the Chairman asked softly.
“He was a POW interrogator, and he’d found out about us. He’d taken the information to his division commander, General Waterford, together with a plan to send a flying column in to get us. General Waterford thought it would smack of favoritism—”
“What?” the Chairman asked.
“Charley,” the chief said, “General Waterford was Bob’s father-in-law.”
The Chairman’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.
“And—my father-in-law—nixed Felter’s plan,” Bellmon went on. “So Felter took it to Colonel Parker, who put it into execution, which almost certainly cost him the star—or stars—to which he was so certainly entitled.”
He met the Chairman’s eyes.
“Colonel Felter, Admiral, has been my friend since that time.”
“Let me tell you, General, what this is all about,” the Chairman said. “When Colonel Felter was named action officer for Dragon Rouge, I was curious about him. That’s not the sort of responsibility normally given to a colonel. So I told my aide to get me his records. And then I forgot about it, since we were all up to our asses in alligators. But then, the day before yesterday, when Dragon Rouge was put in execution, I remembered about the records, and asked my aide about them.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Ordinarily,” the Chairman went on, “when an officer is detailed to the CIA, or another intelligence agency, his records are maintained there, and available to people on a need-to-know basis. Colonel Felter’s records are maintained in the White House. When my aide asked for them, he was told he didn’t have the need-to-know. When he explained that he was asking for me, he was told that my need-to-know would have to be approved by the President. Under the circumstances, I didn’t pursue the issue.”
“But you’re the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs,” Bellmon blurted.
“Yes,” the Chairman said. “Anyway, I mentioned this to Bob, here, and he told me he thought you and Felter were friends. So I thought I could get a picture of him from you, out of school, without having to go to the President to ask for a look at his records.”
“I understand, sir. But there’s not much I can tell you.”
“You said you’ve been friends for years,” the Chairman countered. “How did he wind up as counsel to Presidents?”
“I have an idea, sir, but it’s a rather long story.”
“We have all the time we need. They know where to find me if they need me,” the Chairman