shortly after we arrived there. Fleming, in his role as commodore of the P&FE Fleet, emptied her humidor of cigars and enough of that scotch he drinks . . .”
“Famous Grouse, sir,” Howe furnished.
“. . . and I now do . . . to carry the both of us for the rest of the war.”
He’s going out of his way to make the point that he and Pickering are pals. I wonder where that’s leading?
MacArthur handed him first a cutter, then a lighter.
“Very nice,” Howe said after taking his first puff. “Thank you.”
MacArthur made a deprecating gesture.
“I had occasion several times while you were in Korea—about every time that Colonel Huff stuck his head in the door to tell me you were still there—to reflect on those times, and the role of the aide-de-camp in the army.”
Howe looked at him and waited for him to go on.
“This is in no way a reflection on Colonel Huff—I don’t know what I’d do without him—but I thought that his role as my aide-de-camp represents a considerable change from the role of aides-de-camp in the past, and from your, and Fleming Pickering’s, roles here. And during World War Two.”
“How is that, sir?”
Here it comes, but what the hell is it?
“Think about it, Howe. Napoleon’s aides-de-camp—for that matter, probably those of Hannibal, marching with his elephants into the Pyrenees in 218—were far more than officers who saw to their general’s comfort. They were his eyes and his ears, and when they were in the field, they spoke with his authority.”
“Neither General Pickering nor I have any authority, General, to issue orders to anyone,” Howe argued.
“The difference there is that when one of Hannibal’s aides was in the field, he was not in communication with Hannibal. You are in communication with our Commander-in -Chief. Pickering was in private communication with President Roosevelt all through the war until Roosevelt died. If he then, or you now, told me it was the President’s desire that I do, or not do, thus and so, I would consider it an order.”
Where the hell is he going?
“I can’t imagine that happening, General,” Howe said.
“Neither can I,” MacArthur said. “The other difference being that if the Commander-in-chief wishes to issue an order to me, or anyone else, directly, he now has the means to do so. But that wasn’t really the point of this.”
Okay. Finally, here it comes.
“Oh?”
“I was leading up to the other function of aides-de-camp: being the commander’s eyes and ears. Has it occurred to you that that’s what you’re doing? You and Pickering?”
“Yes, sir. It has. Our mission is to report to the President anything he tells us to look into, or what we see and hear that we feel would interest him.”
“Of course, Fleming Picking has the additional duty—or maybe it’s his primary duty; it doesn’t matter here for the moment—of running the CIA and its covert intelligence, and other operations.”
“That’s true, sir,” Howe said.
Okay. Now we have a direction. I think.
There was a knock at the door, and a white-jacketed Japanese entered bearing a tray on which was a silver coffee set and a plate covered with a silver dome.
“Our egg sandwiches, I believe,” MacArthur said. “Just set that on the table please.”
“That was quick,” Howe said.
“It’s nice to be the Emperor,” MacArthur said, straightfaced, and then when he saw the look on Howe’s face, suddenly shifting into a broad smile, showing he had made a little joke.
“I suppose it is, sir.”
“I am a soldier, nothing more,” MacArthur said. “And I really have done my best to discourage people from thinking I am anything more, and more important, than I think I am.”
I don’t know whether to believe that or not. But I guess I do.
MacArthur lifted the dome over the plate.
“Help yourself,” he said. “They are much better when hot.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“They take me back to West Point,” MacArthur said. “My mother had the idea I wasn’t being properly nourished in the cadet mess, and when I went to see her at night in the Hotel Thayer, she would have egg sandwiches sent up.”
Howe remembered hearing that MacArthur’s mother had lived in the Hotel Thayer at West Point during all of his four years there. He had a sudden mental image of a photograph he had once seen of Douglas MacArthur as a cadet.
He looked like an arrogant sonofabitch then, too. And a little phony. How many other cadets were coddled by their mothers, and fed fried-egg sandwiches at night?