Command Influence

The trial was about to start. The courtroom was filled with the sort who go to hangings, hungry for blood. The circumstances of this case were just what the bottom feeders love. The military didn’t like its adjudications exposed to the light of day, but there was standing room only, the crowd buzzing and speculating upon the atrocious charges against Sergeant Nolan. Scattered in the crowd were a half dozen reporters who feed on this kind of sorry business, and they all wanted to see Nolan swing.

Riggs McCall, lead attorney for the defendant and my co-counsel, looked like a coiled rattler. I was shocked at his transformation when he walked into the courtroom. He seemed taller, and deadly. I had never seen him like that, but I, too, had undergone changes since we’d met just five months before. It could easily have been years.

The counsel table faced a panel of officers sitting in padded swivel chairs behind a long table. In the middle was a full bird colonel, flanked by two light colonels, who in turn were flanked on each side by majors, who were flanked by captains at each end. Their expressions were as hard as stone.

To the left, the Law Officer, the senior ranking officer who acted as the judge over the proceedings sat behind a high enclosure.

Lambrusco, the prosecuting attorney, supported by his two assistants, like jackals hunched over a kill, had staked out the favorable position near the law officer and the witness box.

I was irrevocably deep in this whole mess, and it was anybody’s guess what the next two or three days would bring.

My whole future was entangled with Riggs and this trial. My carefully planned rise to political power, perhaps a bid for the presidency itself, even my father’s banking business relationship with the Defense Department was in danger of crumbling if the trial did not go well. Going well, to them meant a conviction. And I was helping defend this bastard. How did I get into this mess?

Chapter One

When I first met Riggs McCall, he scared hell out of me, and I knew immediately I had to keep my distance. He was trouble simply because he was cocky, self assured, and would get in your face in a heartbeat, and that was the wrong attitude for a lieutenant in the U.S. Army. Acquaintances like that didn’t fit my long term plans in using the Army as a stepping stone to my political future.

The fact that he didn’t give a damn showed not only in the way he carried himself and how he wore his officer’s hat at a jaunty slant over his brow like a World War II fighter pilot, but more the knowing smirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth and the faint light of mockery that somehow illuminated his pale blue eyes.

We met on the first day I reported for duty at Fort Lucky, Louisiana in late November, 1961. I had no idea then how involved our lives would become, nor for how long. I did know, however, we were very different, and I didn’t want anything to do with him at all. It might rub off on me and I had plans other than being friends with a maverick.

Long before I got to Fort Lucky, I had learned that a second lieutenant, lawyer or not (and I was), is a soldier first and lawyer second. He keeps his mouth shut, his pants zipped, and he salutes nearly anything that moves. Basic training is not just hardening and training in survival and killing skills, but an education in proper military-political etiquette. Kiss ass, and when you’re not doing that, be as invisible as possible, and keep your head down at all times.

Boot camp and basic training operate a food processor; it chops you up and pours you out in a nice blend. You look like everybody else and you had better act like everybody else whether you think like them or not. This is where Riggs’s problems began, and why they continued. He was a country boy with little sophistication, and had no basic training when he came into the army, being brought in under an emergency program because of a shortage of army lawyers. He chose being an officer for three years rather than being drafted and being a private for two. He went almost straight to his post assignment from law school. He hadn’t learned to blend in, even if he could have in the first place. He never kept his head down, and he was always getting hit.

I had been more fortunate, indoctrinated in lessons Riggs never had. Exclusive private schools in Dallas, Virginia Military Institute (VMI), and then cum laude from the University of Texas with a law degree. My father was president of the largest bank in Dallas, and my parents both made sure that I had the best and that I was the best.

I had reached my Dad’s six foot two in the twelfth grade. He referred to us as long tall Texans. On the day of my graduation from law school, as I stood outside the hall in my cap and gown, I finally felt as tall as he was. He shook my hand, beaming, and said, Son, play the game. Rise and fall with the tide. You are part of a team you’re going to learn about as you go. You’ve been groomed for greatness.

I never had any doubt about being the best and I never questioned who the team was and what game the team was playing. I should have.

***

Fort Lucky sits in the big piney woods in the northeast quadrant of Louisiana. About twenty-five miles wide at the northern boundary and twenty miles on the eastern and western sides, the huge reservation contains thousands of acres of dry sandy hills, high pines, swamps, and miles of a thick, raspy-leaved, ground-hugging vine called kudzu. Lucky is twenty-four miles from the nearest off-post real beer, but that was the least of its problems. Rattlesnakes on the ground and red wasps in the bushes give the ground soldier trainee plenty to think about.

The Lucky Cantonment was built during the First World War and renovated as Fort Lucky during the Second. The buildings were still primitive–one and two-story temporary barracks–with some cinder-block structures, heated by steam from coal-burning furnaces. They shipped the coal in from Wyoming rather than tap one of the world’s largest pools of natural gas, the Monroe Gas Rock, a few miles away.

Lucky was a particularly inappropriate name, subject to all manner of ribald humor. They borrowed it in a time of intense patriotism from a nearly forgotten Confederate general, Ananias Z. Lucky, a former Methodist bishop whose own luck ran out before the Union guns at Cold Harbor, Virginia.

Thus, right from the beginning, Lucky was the antithesis of its name, and those unlucky enough to get assigned there for more than temporary basic training all agreed that if God should give the world an enema, Lucky was the locus where the instrument would be inserted–anus mundi. I readily agreed with this conclusion when I first drove through its streets and reported in at post headquarters.

The billions in cold war appropriations for military build-up had just touched Lucky when I arrived. New billets for married officers and enlisted personnel were under construction, and a spanking new seven-story hospital stood gleaming just beyond the renovated Post exchange and commissary. There was new equipment, and a sense of apathetic frenzy, if that makes sense. Every cloud on the horizon took on the shape of a mushroom. We knew war was inevitable, and this kind of war would be apocalyptic, leaving nobody untouched. None of my friends wanted to have children.

As for me, I didn’t ask for or want to be at Lucky and had never expected this duty assignment. Right after law school in Austin, I passed the bar and they gave me my ticket to the courtroom. I framed the license issued by the Texas Supreme Court authorizing me to practice law. It was my passport to way beyond mediocrity, and like an icon ready to hang on the wall of my first office, it laid on the back seat of my ragtop Pontiac as I drove to my first assignment.

Every young man faced conscription into the army unless he joined the marines, navy, or air force or was deferred for some reason, as I had been while in school. With my engineering degree from VMI, I went straight into law school at UT, after which I had two choices: first, I could use my ROTC commission as an infantry second lieutenant, with six months in the reserve on active duty; second, the Judge Advocate General’s Corps (JAG) the legal branch, held out a first lieutenant’s commission as a carrot, but a three-year obligation went with it. If it had not been for these two options, I would have had a third choice, if you could call it that, because this was the Cold War when all young able-bodied men were eligible for the draft. The draftee served two years active duty as an enlisted man.

I chose the first. I wanted to get back home as soon as possible to start my life in politics. A six month tour would get me back quickly, and the amenities offered an officer were surely more pleasant than two years sharing barracks with a bunch of draftees or three as an army lawyer in some Staff Judge Advocate Office. I could do six months standing on my head, and a favorable military record would help my future plans. I knew, with my family connections, I could easily be a state representative within three years and in three more a Texas congressman, with an eye toward U.S. Senator in ten. I knew where I was headed. My father and his friends had practically guaranteed me smooth sailing on the seas politicana. But the easy tides became a tidal wave at Fort Lucky, and I was swept away in the storm almost immediately.

For once my plans didn’t work out exactly as anticipated. I was called to active duty during the Berlin crisis in June, 1961, the day after Kennedy said, Ask not what your country can do for you–ask what you can do for your country. My big surprise was that my six-months obligation had been scrapped in favor of two years active duty and later was even extended to three years. If I hadn’t exercised my option, my draft board would have sent its tidings instantly on graduation. As many of my buddies in law school soon realized, the ink wasn’t dry on their certificates before their draft boards began to reel in the line that had been snagged for their seven years of undergraduate and law school. The breath of the world’s mightiest fighting force was warm on our young necks.

My military schooling at VMI gave me a good understanding of the army way of life, and wearing the uniform was second nature. I finished my summer program at Fort Jackson, South Carolina and had completed the Basic Officers Orientation Course at Fort Benning, Georgia, before reporting to active duty. I went to Fort Belvoir, Virginia, for basic for engineers, then jump school at Fort Campbell, Kentucky where I was qualified as a paratrooper.

I was prepared for anything.

***

Fort Lucky’s two-story whitewashed headquarters sat in the center of a circular park, with streets, like spokes, extending out from the center of the hub. Manicured lawns surrounded the immaculate building, the delicate zoysia grass turned to a light brown by the frosts, and flags snapped in the cold November winds. Instantly I felt, and later grew to barely tolerate, what seemed to be the collective personality of the post, a pervasive sullen attitude that floated like a dismal shroud over the area. It came from the hard-eyed MP guards at the front gate, the infantry training areas, the helicopter and air training base at Louzon Field, and the rows of military barracks and parade grounds spotted throughout the base.

Places have collective personalities and Fort Lucky’s ranges from a high of spitting antagonism to a chronic sulking apathy. There is a palpable, stifling resentment, and it is reflected in the cheerless faces of the men and women who serve and live there.

I parked my car in the paved lot near the Big House, the headquarters building. The little gold bar on my shoulders meant nothing much to anybody, particularly since I was not from West Point nor was my daddy RA, regular army. But I was an officer nonetheless, and now, after being in the army for just a few months, I was accustomed to enlisted men old enough to be my father, and far more experienced than I, saluting me and calling me sir. One of these grizzled old sergeants passed me under the spreading oaks that led up to the Big House door. He snapped a brisk salute and barked, Good morning, sir, with heavy emphasis on the sir, and kept walking. I returned his salute. The corporal on guard at the door also saluted me.

I was to sign in with the Officer of the Day at the front desk just inside the big double entrance doors, which was standard procedure upon arriving at any new post assignment. The OD would then dispatch you to your unit, noting the time of your arrival, and giving directions to your assignment. When the OD, an energetic captain named Daniels, saw my name tag and orders, he made a phone call–to check in with my unit, I thought, but instead, he ordered a young private to escort me to another office in the building.

Thinking there was some mistake, I said, Captain, am I not to report to Company C?

Captain Daniels smiled warmly. Yes, you are, lieutenant–later.

I was baffled, and a bit worried, as I was hurried up two sets of stairs, through a series of offices and corridors, and finally into a neat little waiting room attended by a pert, middle-aged lady. She smiled at me over her reading glasses when I identified myself and told her I had just arrived on the post. She dialed a number on her rotary phone, said a few words, and then led me to a door on the right.

The simple plate on the door read, Major General Brandon Stewart. There were two silver stars mounted on the plate above his name.

I had not known I was to meet the Old Man, but when I entered I found myself in the presence of the Fort Lucky’s commanding general himself.

Dad always told me to go to the top man first. The top at any military post was usually found at the officers club among wives and wanna-be generals, because that’s where things really get done in the peacetime army. Intending to follow his advice, I knew it would be a cinch to cut through the country club butter of officer’s clubs. I was raised in country clubs, and small talk was my item. But that would take strategic planning and tactical timing. This sudden short cut had not been included in my initial battle plans.

On the other hand, achieving a diplomatic faux pas for ignoring strict protocol on one’s first day on post by not going directly to one’s unit portended consequences not in keeping with well-laid plans to conquer Lucky on one’s own terms. But here, during my first hour on duty at Lucky, I found myself facing a huge bear of a man behind an acre-wide desk across the broad expanse of a bare hardwood floor. This man commanded the lives of tens of thousands of men at any given time, including mine. Somehow I must have made a serious blunder by allowing myself to be escorted to this, the loftiest of chambers on this post.

Cigar smoke permeated the room, and had for a long time, judging by the depth of it. Windows had been closed for winter, cigars had been smoked, left smoldering in trays, chewed and half-smoked stubs forgotten and abandoned dead about the room, and now every pore in the leather chairs and every cell of the wood furniture, floor, and ceiling took on the acrid reek of smoke.

The heavy, dark-haired general behind the desk frowned over the unlighted cigar stub he wore between his thin lips. Two small brown eyes aimed at me like twin gun barrels as I was ushered through the door. He returned my best and snappiest salute with more a wave at his brow than a salute.

Come on in, Lieutenant, he said, extending a hammy hand. I leaned forward and he enveloped mine in a crushing grip.

The smile froze on my face until he released my mangled fingers and waved me to a submissively low chair in front of his massive desk. His back was to double westside windows, which made me squint to see his face in the dark silhouette. His already dominant persona was magnified intensely by this throne-like positioning.

I felt, and acted, appropriately impressed and obsequious enough. He, in turn, was obviously pleased at my crisp uniform and the gleaming crossed infantry rifles on my lapels. The winged silver parachute on my chest meant I had finished jump school, and the little pewter-hued medal of a cross within a laurel wreath, from which hung two tiny pewter plates, proved that I had qualified as expert, or superior, in firing the rifle and pistol. These decorations entitled me to share the rarified air breathed by men of war. As sacred symbols of the dedicated ground soldier, they said it all. The only thing missing was the Ranger patch, earned after going through the intense physical survival and combat schools for Rangers. I wanted that patch, and would get it. The Army would pay for it.

I had gone to jump school because it was fun, and the chance to do those things again in civilian life wouldn’t appear. It took only a short time after my basic schools anyway, but there was method in my madness, for one thing was sure: being a certified paratrooper paved a golden four-lane highway through the quagmire of military socio-politics. The look on the faces of officers and enlisted men unequivocally proved that I possessed the key to the inner circle of military acceptance when they saw these small decorations. There was always a small smile and the flow of I-see-you-brother.

The expression on this big general’s face was one of near love as he took in the cluster of miniature trophies on my chest. The holy triumvirate: crossed rifles, the winged parachute, and expert medals. Keys to the kingdom of military ease.

You sure as hell don’t look like a damned lawyer, the general snorted. He grinned and tried to light the black stub snagged between his big teeth.

I just grinned back, as if we both had some kind of secret. After a moment of silence he began to laugh, and opened a folder lying on his desk.

Your personnel file, Madison.

I probably registered surprise, and I remember losing a bit of my studied aplomb as I stretched upward to see what he had in his hands. It was not logical that he, the commanding general of this largest of infantry training posts, should have my file, particularly at this time and place.

You sure you don’t want to forget that damned law bullshit and get a regular army commission? Without waiting for an answer, he continued, I’ll recommend it, and you’ll be let into the real Army, not that chickenshit reserve.

This was time to hold out the bait, so I answered, allowing a twinkle in my eye, as if lightly moving an evasive pawn in response to his bold gambit: Well, I don’t know for sure right now, sir. I haven’t had much real army life yet, since my experience has mainly been schools. I want to see what’s offered.

He eyed me through the flame of the match he held close to fire up the black stub in his mouth. Never taking his eyes from me, he chewed on the shredded end and swallowed the bits of tobacco leaf and juice, puffing to keep the stump of a cigar alive. After a moment, he snorted a laugh and said, You got what it takes, Madison–as I can see right here in your record–to get my job.

The CO of the post doesn’t interview every fresh second lieutenant who hits the post, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell this man that the army was just a temporary inconvenience for me. Instead, I would throw out a lazy line and let my bait float on the water to see what happened.

I am not going to rule it out, sir. The army offers lots of opportunity and I hope to decide while I’m here.

He pushed himself up from his chair, and looked down at me from at least six feet two. His bulk seemed to fill the space behind the desk.

I know a little about you, Madison. You got politics in your blood. Remember, Ike was president, and a good military record can put a man where he wants to be. But you got to be more’n a prima donna.

I nodded as he walked around the desk to stand beside me. I stood, knowing that a junior should never sit while a senior was on his feet, even though there was nothing in the books about it. He stood near me and we were nearly the same height, so I was able to look him straight in the eyes. He smelled like the room.

Seeing he was testing me, and maybe trying to get under my skin, I deliberately stiffened–slightly. Further reaction on my part would have indicated defiance and any less would have suggested insecurity. I had been born to diplomacy, for I could swing easily to the precise body position, facial expression and tone of voice that would create any needed effect. I did it then.

Sir, I plan to earn my keep, and more.

Thought I’d get a rise outa you. Nah, you’re no prima donna, boy. You got the makin’s of a damn good soldier, and from what I see, you can play the game.

Thank you, sir, I said, not knowing what else to say. I was still somewhat baffled at the presence of my personnel file on his desk, but I wasn’t going to blow anything by asking questions.

What do you plan to do while you’re at Lucky, Madison?

It was no time to give lengthy speeches, like some candidate for office. His military mind wouldn’t appreciate bullshit, but probably would appreciate stock, non-committal answers, for that was the ass-kissing way and he knew I knew it, and I was willing to do it. That was one of the tests. I answered with a quick Be a good soldier, sir. I was still trolling my bait and he was taking a look.

Nodding knowingly, without taking his hard eyes from mine, his lips worked into a small smile around the cigar.

Madison, you smart bastard, I know you already. I’ve seen your type. You want the best. You’re like me. Don’t hold out, thinking that you can get something you couldn’t get otherwise. But I don’t mind you playing the game. I’ll be watching you.

He crushed my hand again, studying my discomfort at his close proximity and the fact that my fingers were being mauled.

Before you go to your unit, you better get over to the Staff Judge Advocate’s office and meet some of them lawyer buddies of yours. They could use some of your savvy.

He grinned, and I could feel him mentally dismissing me.

Quickly, I snapped to rigid attention, holding my salute stiffly, waiting for him to give his responding salute. The lower ranking personnel never releases the salute until the senior’s salute is executed fully.

General Stewart paused, watching me as I held my joined fingers tensed by my right eyebrow, allowing my hand a slight tremor as the drill teams do to show they are hard at attention. He slowly raised his hand in salute, a calculating expression on his broad face.

Thank you, and good day, sir.

Good day to you, Lieutenant.

I about-faced and left the room, thinking the SOB knew exactly what I was doing. For a SOB like me, the thought was more than a little disconcerting.

Chapter Two

The unexpected rocket ride to the post penthouse left me breathless. After leaving General Stewart’s office, I had to reorient myself to reality. Dad had connections with the upper strata of the military, but he had promised to let me play my own game in my own way and not intervene or interfere. With this assurance, I surmised my record in school and in the army had earned this unexpected attention. Possibly General Stewart made it a practice to inspect all promising young officers firsthand, and my meritorious record had qualified me. But that was a stretch.

Whatever the reason, it was a fantastic coup, and I was not one to distrust good luck. I was a lawyer, yet not a lawyer, and for the next three years I would have it made if General Stewart kept trying to romance me into a permanent commitment. As long as I was fishing and he was nibbling, I would be in great shape.

My company commander might be a little miffed if he found out, but I could always say that it wasn’t my doing–and that was true. This stroke of good luck could easily position me for the rest of my tenure in the army. Even my CO had probably never met the general except in extremely formal circumstances at the officers club, if at all. A helluva head start and just in line with my long-term plans.

I still had a couple of hours before I was due at my unit at Company C, U.S. Army Infantry School (USAIS) Battalion, and I was none too anxious to get there. What better way to kill time than to follow the general’s suggestion and visit the office of the Staff Judge Advocate and get acquainted with the lawyers there?

A long T-shaped wooden frame building, the SJA office was only two blocks from the Big House. Walking across the tree-lined street from the parking lot, the strong astringent odour of coal smoke assailed me, and I wondered if I would smell like that in a few days. Through the heavy double doors of the building was an incredibly long, narrow hall, with doors to offices on each side. The forgotten staffers who planned Fort Lucky must have put three of those old T buildings, so-called because they were temporary at the time, in a row and stuck them together to form such a long structure.

To my right was a door labeled: Legal Assistance. To my left, one marked Billeting, which is where I would go to get assigned my quarters. There would be bachelor officer quarters (BOQ) somewhere on the post, a room or apartment. Having just met the general, and about to meet the SJA, it might carry a little weight toward getting assigned more favorable quarters, perhaps even getting a housing allowance and permission to live off post if for some reason space was unavailable on post. It was devious thinking like this that would surely get me to the U.S. Senate one day!

The smell of coal was still strong in the building, and I realized a coal-burning furnace was somewhere near and this was the way these buildings were warmed. I stuck my head in the billeting office. A slender, bored redhead, smoking a cigarette, turned from staring out the window to give me the once-over. Her lips were pouty and her sweater snug. I was accustomed only to seeing aged or worn ladies at these army office positions, never a full-blown winsome lass possessed of such calm intensity. She fairly took my breath. She didn’t say anything, but her gold-flecked hazel eyes held a slight question. I gave her my best howdy, emphasizing my Texas drawl, which was not too far from accents common to that part of Louisiana. And I sparkled a smile.

How you today, ma’am?

She grunted and exhaled a plume of smoke, eying me like I was lunch, and then spoke with surprising warmth, slightly imitating my exaggerated drawl. I noticed she wore no ring on the telling finger. I’m fine. What can I do you for?

We grinned and it was then I knew I was going to get a nice set of quarters when I came back later.

I’m looking for the SJA.

Down the hall. She paused, unabashedly looking up and down my six-two frame. Sir.

Thankee kindly, ma’am, I said, backing through the door. I look forward to visitin’ with you later when we can talk about my billets.

Me too. . .sir. There was a slight pause before the sir, as she gave me another searching appraisal. She took a drag from her cigarette and smiled as I shut the door.

The interminably long hall came to a dead end at a T-intersection. Two more T buildings had been set crosswise so halls led both right and left from that point. Dead at the top of the T was a simple engraved brass sign that read Courtroom, and to its left a plastic sign, reading, Chief of Military Justice.

To my right, while facing the door to the courtroom, was a pair of heavy solid mahogany doors, considerably out of place in this drab old frame building. I supposed this was to mark the presence of an important personage and, indeed, right there on the door in elegant golden letters, was inscribed Staff Judge Advocate.

I turned the gilded knob and peeked in. A layer of cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling, and the smell of stale coffee was combined with that of cigarette butts. I opened the door just a little wider and took in a relatively large room with a very obese woman, middle years behind her, pecking away at an old manual Royal typewriter. A huge mug of coffee sat on her left, on which was written Coffee Hog, and to her right was an ashtray filled with dead, mashed out cigarette butts, a live one steaming away in the middle of the pile. She broke into an emphysematous cough that lasted nearly a full minute, then she picked up the cigarette, took a long drag, and chased it with a slug of the coffee.

Ahem, I announced my presence.

She slowly turned, as if accustomed to being interrupted by all sorts of useless and time-wasting men. Her rheumy eyes spoke volumes of her army wisdom, looking like a veteran of wars and warriors in that old chair from which she had seen a legion of bosses cycle through that office. When she smiled, her face became genuinely charming, suddenly filled with light and warmth. She moved her great body with some difficulty, accompanied by a wheezing that betrayed a serious problem.

Cigarettes, she said. Killin’ me. Guess it’s as good a way as any to go, ‘cause I ain’t givin’ ‘em up.

I nodded. Is the SJA in? I’d like to see him.-

What about?

I was an attorney, I explained, new on the post in an infantry unit, and would like to meet him and the other attorneys on staff before reporting for duty to my commanding officer.

Well, of course, she said in a motherly fashion, as she had probably said to countless young lieutenants during her lengthy tenure. She picked up the phone and dialed, muttered into it, and then directed me to another solid mahogany door to her right, this one boasting a magnificent screaming eagle in gold leaf, clutching arrows in one talon and an unfurling American Stars and Stripes in the other. Directly beneath the eagle, at eye level was the name, Lt. Colonel Ormand Matthews.

I thanked her graciously and knocked gently on the door.

Colonel Matthews’s office was as large as the general’s and occupied the entire right upper wing of the T configuration of the building complex. Windows filled three sides of the big room, and the abundant natural light was supplemented by several overhead fluorescent lamps in the ceiling. I could see the general’s big white building just on the other side of a wide parade ground.

Although first impressed at the good taste shown in the arrangements of furniture and appointments, there was also a bogus quality about it. It was overly designed to please, too studied, nicer than most but not sumptuous enough to offend superiors. I remembered my dad, president of the First National Bank of Dallas: Never get a car better than your boss’s.

As I stepped onto a rich, but not too rich, Persian carpet and closed the door, a well-groomed and very neat lieutenant colonel sitting behind a mahogany desk said, Come in, Lieutenant. I’ll be with you in a moment.

He continued intently studying a document on the desk before him, looking at it through a pair of reading glasses perched high on his nose, giving me a chance to figure him out and look around. He was a round little man, on whose large head was an abundance of well-coiffed hair, greying elegantly at the temporals. His plump, pink face was so fair it took on an almost feminine aspect, and his hands, resting on the document, were passive and white, wedding band gleaming on the third finger of his left hand, a class ring on the right. From my vantage point just a few feet from the front of his desk, I couldn’t make out the school. His jacket, bearing decorations similar to mine but with some ribbons and the red and white four-leaf clover Fourth Army patch, was hanging on a coat-rack behind his desk. He was in his shirt sleeves, and his khaki shirt was so well pressed and impeccable that I looked down at mine, which had a few travel wrinkles, and somehow felt chastened. I was to learn later he kept three freshly laundered shirts in his office closet and changed them three times a day in case he was visited by important persons.

There were two comfortable leather chairs in front of his desk and a table to the right beside a fairly extensive library shelf of books. A ceiling-high flagstaff, from which was draped a large American flag, stood behind him on the left, and papers were neatly stacked in tidy little piles on the corner of his desk and on the table. Several pictures hung along the walls, scattered among certificates and other framed documents. One was a picture of John Wayne, on which was scrawled: Ormand, I want you and God to bless America, signed Duke. Another was from Leonard Bernstein, one from Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, another from President Eisenhower, and one from U.S. Senator Ormand Matthews, with a note written across the bottom in sweeping script that read, Best Wishes to my brother’s son. Keep the enemy from our shores. Uncle ‘O’.

At first, it seemed the pictures and awards of merit and other certificates were random in placement, but it became apparent that they were strategically placed in a manner that would generate the most mileage from witnesses to these walls of self-promotion. The assemblage presented valiant warrior, diligent lawyer, scholar, art lover, American, and an altogether swell guy image, and was so well orchestrated as to leave no doubt this was indeed a Renaissance man, at least in the eyes of the impressionable. I was honestly amused and somewhat bothered, for this was a man who was either going somewhere or going nowhere. Fort Lucky could be either a dead-end penal colony or one of those launching grounds for the ambitious, rank-hungry, going-places military man. His was yet to be determined–probably dependent on how he performed in the eyes of the general and his other superiors in the next year or so at Fort Lucky. A nervous place for any upwardly mobile military man.

At length, he looked up at me with a charming but somewhat denigrating smile that I soon learned was reserved for second looeys. His clear blue eyes evaluated me, instantly taking in my own portable self-laudatory decorations, and I could see his mind click into gear. I saluted smartly.

Second Lieutenant John Clement Madison, sir.

He returned it professionally and casually, a faint smile touching his full lips. I snapped my hand back to my side and stood at attention as he watched, letting me stand there for a moment as stiff as a poker. His voice was almost a whisper.

At ease, Lieutenant.

I relaxed and continued standing.

Sit down. He gestured to one of the leather chairs.

I nodded my thanks and sat. He asked a few questions about my background and when he learned I had just left the office of General Stewart, he switched into another social gear, one he evidently used on those suspected of being potentially influential.

So you are a lawyer, graduated from Texas State University, and I see you’re airborne qualified and you can shoot a rifle and pistol.

Yes sir. I nodded, obsequiously, but with just enough determination to let him know I was my own man, and perhaps a soldier after all and therefore he should be a little careful in dealing with me, even if only a second lieutenant. I added evenly, That’s the University of Texas, sir.

He smiled faintly, dismissing his error as inconsequential.

I did my jump school at Fort Bragg, he mused, ignoring my interruption. They’re doing them all at Campbell and Benning now, I hear. I missed Ranger school. It was the end of the war, and then there was Korea. I was a little old for it by then. Always wished I could have gone.

After a wistful moment of silence, he proffered a small golden chest while snapping open its lid.

Cigar?

In the chest were ten panatela cigars, long and thin, accompanied by a near-perfumed aroma. I was tempted to take one for later, but there was an obligation to smoke it now and refusal was the better political positioning. It somehow didn’t seem proper for a young second lieutenant to accept and smoke a colonel’s cigar at the first visit.

Thank you, Colonel, I don’t smoke, I said.

He smiled insincerely, to show how my virtue impressed him, withdrew the box, and set it down on his right, then, with two slender fingers he lightly plucked out a cigar, and almost by sleight of hand, produced a tiny golden guillotine and clipped a bit of tobacco from one end. The fragment fell into a clean, crystal ash tray. The performance of these simple acts was perfection.

It may have been the way he did things, to impress and maybe to intimidate, but I was entirely willing to buy a ticket if there was a second act.

Hand-rolled, he said. Not a Havana; Cubans are a bit brash.

On the desk was a small bayonet in a scabbard I had thought was a letter opener. He gently pulled the bayonet from the scabbard, and as the blade exited, the tip ignited and a delicate flame leaped forth. He lit the cigar and inhaled deeply.

What is your duty assignment, Lieutenant Madison?

Company C, 4th battalion, USAIS. That’s a STRAC unit sir. I was a part of the Strategic Army Readiness Command, meaning that we were supposed to be ready to go anywhere in the world on twenty-four hours notice.

I am aware of that, Lieutenant. He smiled thinly. That’s Colonel Ransome’s battalion. A very good friend of mine. His wife Glenda and my Marguerite have those coffee klatches, you know, and occasionally we’re matched in the bridge tournaments. Do you play bridge, lieutenant?

I felt the tentative tingle of a mental probe testing to determine if I was worthy of more of his time, and I knew I was in with this boy because bridge was my game.

Yes, I do, but I’m not too good. I enjoy the game.

Up until then I felt that he had been watching me through a one-way mirror, and for the first time, his eyes took on a gleam, and I thought he was actually going to come alive. I had been tournament winner many times in college and had played with my mother and father at home in Dallas. Bridge was the social thing there, and I was completely comfortable in any cocktail setting. Mother said I was omnivorous, able to fit into any gathering. I knew if I wanted it, I could be the social lion of Fort Lucky via this rosy-cheeked colonel sitting before me.

His little rosebud mouth worked into a half smile as he measured me. I’ll bet you’re better than you admit, Lieutenant.

I let my eyes confess that I was pretty damned good and said nothing. We looked at each other in recognition, two upwardly mobile leopards stalking the same prey.

He delicately knocked the ashes from the end of his cigar. When we play again I’ll have you over. As you can see, this place needs some bright lights, and a new bridge player will be a blessing. We’re just far enough from anywhere to be isolated. Shreveport is a hundred miles to the northwest, Monroe is fifty miles to the north, and Alexandria is fifty miles to the south. Even those cities have little to offer by way of entertainment. So we do the best to entertain ourselves.

It does seem to be pretty far from anything, sir, I said as we rose from our chairs.

Standing, he was short and pear shaped, and waddled as he came around the desk. He shook my hand. It was as soft and smooth as a woman’s. His nails had been manicured, and I detected a faint fragrance of expensive cologne.

I hope Fort Lucky has something to offer you, Madison. It’s a testing ground for some, and the end of the career line for others. If you’re thinking of making a career of the service, it isn’t a bad life. It has the security of a paycheck and offers advancement and prestige. I would recommend it if you are thinking of it, and if you want any advice or would like to talk at any time, feel free to visit me.

He walked me to the door and opened it. I felt a little odd, having a senior officer do that, but he beckoned for me to go through and into the hall. As an afterthought, he turned to me and said, I can, if you want, get you an immediate promotion to First Lieutenant if you make the switch to JAG. He paused and looked at me inquiringly. Again I saw a positioning possibility by keeping things unbalanced.

I’ll think about it, Sir, after I’ve seen what my post has to offer.

After considering my answer for a moment he nodded, then said, I’ll introduce you to my staff.

He led. I followed. Which was as it should be.

Chapter Three

The engraved plastic sign on the panel read, Chief of Military Justice. Matthews pushed the door open to reveal five officers talking around a table. They jumped to attention when he strode through the door.

At ease, he barked. Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant John Madison, a soldier-lawyer from Texas who is to serve his reserve time in 4th battalion, US Army Infantry School. Unless, of course, you men can convince him to transfer to JAG. He laughed, and they all dutifully joined in.

He introduced me to each officer, but even before he began I could tell two were regular career army and three were reserve, just serving their time. It doesn’t take long to tell who is who; the career soldier is more alert about appearances and things such as eye contact.

First, there was Major Everett Wilson, Deputy Staff Judge Advocate and second in command of the SJA office. A gaunt, worried black man of about forty, his thin face showed the aftermath of a bad case of teenage acne that probably gave him hell shaving every day. He was the first black lawyer I had seen in the army. His attempt at a smile turned his lips down and he couldn’t look me in the eye. Terrified, I thought.

Next, was a handsome all-American crisply-uniformed captain with a blond flattop, icy blue eyes, and a jutting chin complete with dimple. Captain Mason Murdock, Chief of Military Justice. His accent placed him from somewhere around Ohio or Wisconsin. His grip was firm and his gaze level when he shook my hand. His teeth were perfect behind his smile, and the force of his, So pleased to meet you, was so