for that,” Lowell said. “But I’m sure the officers and noncoms who are going to be coming down here to join Colonel Harris would really like something like that.”
“Consider it done,” Stephens said. “Well, I’ll leave you fellows alone. I know you’ve probably got military secrets and stuff like that to talk about.”
He held out his hand.
“It’s been a pleasure, Colonel,” he said, and then we walked to Lunsford and tapped Lunsford’s Silver Star.
“I heard where the last one came from, Major,” he said. “If you ever want to change employers, give me a call.”
He shook Lunsford’s hand and walked out the door.
Major Charles Daley, USAF, knocked at the door of the defense attaché, waited until permission to enter was granted, and then opened the door and stood in the center, almost at attention.
“Lieutenant Colonel Lowell to see you, sir.”
“Permission granted,” Colonel H. Robert McGrory said.
Lowell marched into the office, stopped thirty inches from Colonel McGrory’s desk, came to attention, saluted, and said, “Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Lowell reporting to the defense attaché as ordered.”
McGrory crisply returned the salute.
“Major, I do not wish to be disturbed,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Major Daley said, and left the office.
“You took your time getting here, Colonel,” McGrory said. “I will want, of course, to get into the nature of your business with Mr. Stephens, but we will get to that in a moment.”
Lowell, who was still standing at attention, his eyes focused six inches over McGrory’s head, did not reply.
McGrory had a yellow lined pad on his desk. Lowell dropped his eyes very quickly, long enough to see that it was a list of his sins, which Colonel McGrory was arranging sequentially.
The door opened. Major Daley was standing in it.
“You may stand at ease, Colonel,” McGrory said.
You sonofabitch, you didn’t “forget” to put me at ease. If that major hadn’t shown up, I’d still be at attention.
“Major Daley, I thought I made it clear that I did not wish to be disturbed.”
“Sir, it’s the vice chief of staff,” Major Daley said.
“What?”
“It’s the vice chief of staff of the Air Force, sir.”
“Would you like me to step outside, Colonel?” Lowell asked.
“You stand right where you are!” McGrory flared, and added, “At attention.”
Lowell popped to attention.
Colonel McGrory picked up his telephone.
“Colonel McGrory speaking, General,” he said.
“Yes, sir. He’s in my office at this moment, General.”
“Yes, sir,” Colonel McGrory said.
He repeated this at least ten times in the next ninety seconds, and then put the telephone back in its cradle.
He looked at Lowell. His face was white.
“My orders, Colonel, are to ask of you how I may be of service to your mission here. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, sir.”
“In that case, we have nothing to discuss, do we?”
“I don’t believe we do, sir.”
“You may take your post, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir,” Lowell said. He saluted. The salute was returned. Lowell executed an about-face movement and walked out of Colonel McGrory’s office.
As he passed Major Daley, he winked.
[ TWO ]
Dependent Services Branch
Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff for Personnel
Headquarters, XVIII Airborne Corps and Fort Bragg, North
Carolina
0830 5 January 1965
It was not the first time she had registered a car on a post, and when Mrs. Marjorie Portet walked into the rambling, one-story frame building (built in 1940 and intended to last no more than ten years), she was reasonably convinced that she had everything that she would need with her.
First, a copy of Jack’s orders assigning him (them, as she now thought of it) to Fort Bragg. The car’s title. The certificate of insurance. A Xerox of his driver’s license, and a just-issued-by-the -provost-marshal certificate that the Jaguar’s headlights and stoplights worked and were properly adjusted; that the tires had an adequate amount of tread depth; that the brakes had an adequate amount of lining; that the horn made a proper amount of noise and the exhaust system did not make an excessive amount of noise and did not emit a cloud of noxious fumes.
There were people in line ahead of her, women “getting stickers” for the family car, and a half-dozen lower-ranking enlisted men, younger men who did not have a wife, a helpmate, a life’s partner to get a sticker for them. It took her about fifteen minutes to reach the sergeant behind the desk.
She laid all the documentation out for him, including the neatly-filled-out-in-block-letters-with-ballpoint-pen Request for Privately Owned Vehicle Registration, in triplicate.
The sergeant examined the provost marshal’s Report of Safety Inspection of Privately Owned Vehicle carefully. It identified the POV as a 1964