|
8
Tory Breen, 28, wearing a sparklingly perfect and creased dark-green Class A uniform, drove her moss-colored Jaguar to the Pentagon. She’d been invited to meet a certain special general. Her black regulation purse and a pair of white gloves lay on the passenger seat. She wore a 9 mm. automatic in a polished holster, with a crisp white lanyard running up under her right epaulet which bore her unit insignium and a lone silver first lieutenant’s bar. She wore her trousers bloused into black polished combat boots. Her brass gleamed, including crossed muzzle-loader pistol MP motifs on each lapel. She’d had her hair done and spent hours preparing for this meeting.
Driving on this radiant Autumn day, she decided her grandmother must have had a hand in this, for why else would the general’s office contact her? Tory hadn’t really thought about asking to arrange a meeting—it embarrassed her that she might seem like a junior officer unfairly currying favor. Loosen up, she told herself, anyone else would at least contact the man.
She parked and then walked, miles it seemed, through parking lots and long corridors in the aging building, until she found his office. She stopped in a ladies’ room, nervously straightened her lapels, and looked herself up and down for the nth time. Then she found her way down the carpeted, hushed corridor in a tomb-like section of the Pentagon’s E-ring. Here, retired reserve generals recalled for temporary duty had especially large offices.
She knocked hesitantly but firmly with a white-gloved fist on the office door of General Rocky Devereaux, U.S. Army (Retired).
The odor of old cigar smoke permeated the area, one of the few where smoking privileges had not been entirely extinguished. From the silence, she thought there might not be a soul alive in there. On the door was a wooden sign with carved letters, “Rocky Devereaux, U.S. Army ,” and beside that a chipped, faded wooden rooster. The rooster had a cigar in his mouth, cocked up at a defiant angle like his raised boxing gloves; on his past-century steel pot helmet were four stars. She held her ear to the door and knocked again, louder. A voice slashed through the air like scissors ripping paper: “I said come in, for chrissake! Is everyone deaf in this goddam place?”
She turned the handle and stepped inside. In this ancient room that dated back to World War II stood a slim white-haired man surrounded by an atoll of cigar smoke. He wore simple fatigues and a black leather belt with a holstered .38 caliber revolver. He stood framed by a window with a crack in the glass, and turned as she entered. His back was straight, and he had his hands folded behind him. His white hair had stubborn peaks in it, and his eyes an impatient fire. He looked ready to bark at her, and she stiffened in anticipation, but when he saw her his eyes softened and his mouth opened helplessly. “My God,” he whispered, so she barely heard him.
She came to attention and saluted. “Lieutenant Victoria Breen reporting, Sir.”
“My God,” he repeated. He returned her salute with a careless flick of the hand and stepped closer as if to take hold of a ghost. “You look like him.”
“I hope not, Sir.” She knew from photographs she had something of Granddad that gave her soft face firm edges. He took the cigar from the corner of his mouth, and stared at her. Then he laughed. “Of course not, you look a lot prettier. Sense of humor, too. Welcome aboard, Breen.” He stuck out his hand. “Last time I saw you, you were about this tall.” As they shook hands, he held his other hand by his knee.
“Thank you, Sir. I was five. Thanks for receiving me today.”
He offered coffee, and she accepted. “My pleasure. Your granddad was a great soldier, Lieutenant Breen, what’s your—?” He poured.
“Tory, Sir.”
“Your grandma wrote to me.”
“So I heard, Sir. I appreciate your interest, and it’s really nice to meet you once more.” Actually, she’d been mortified at her grandmother’s meddling.
“I admired your grandfather, one of the best friends I ever had. When Eleanor called me, said you were having second thoughts and wanted to move on to civilian life..”
Maybe he knows, she thought. She turned beet red. Her messy divorce had been the talk of Fort Sill, causing her unfaithful husband to be cashiered out of the Reserves, and she'd had to request a transfer and a fresh start to escape wagging tongues. She'd almost resigned. "I was going through some soul searching, Sir. That was a year or two ago. I've cleared my head since. I'm sticking with it."
"Every young officer goes through gyrations." He shrugged, as if there were nothing to it, and she felt a bit more relieved. "She had a lot of contacts along Flag Row, she was very wise, and she was concerned. I said of course I’d take a look at your file. When I saw all those awards and all that effort, I agreed to write a letter for your file, detailing the solid Army background in your family and so forth. Sometimes it isn’t what’s said, but who says it, or how it’s said. Couldn’t hurt you.” He held his coffee cup in one hand, the cigar in the other, and sat against the morning light in the window. He had a bit of paunch, she saw, and white hair stuck out of the V of his shirt lapels; the curtain folds in his neck quivered as he spoke in quick, energetic bursts; a few veins showed on his cheekbones; the bridge of his nose had a scar, and the jutting jaw spoke of pride and toughness. A tear twinkled in each of his cloudy-gray eyes. “Victor Breen used to go into Saigon every second weekend and bring me back a box of good Virginia cigars. Should have killed me by now. By rights he’d be sitting here instead of me. Guess you were named after him, huh?”
“Yessir.”
“He didn't have to see us lose that one, and then go through the next couple of wars. Maybe he's lucky. ” He set the cup down and turned away to wipe his eyes. They talked some more, and as he reminisced, he seemed to look directly into the past, as if it were a diorama. Sometimes he smiled at how it had been. “I can still picture me as I got off the plane at Ton Son Nut, a green butterbar. A couple of weeks later, on some deserted stretch in Iraq, your granddad walked into a burning plane and pulled guys out. But you know what? He was the kind of soldier that people just follow.” He swept his cigar in an arc. “Follow! He had charisma. Couple of fellas walked right in there behind him and pulled more guys out. All the while he kept firing at VC that kept popping up all around in the elephant grass. Took some bullets, but he saved a bunch of lives. A year later—” She thought he was going to choke up again, but he didn’t. She knew—Granddad had been hit in the head by a stray bullet during a firefight on some brown river where the sun kept twinkling and the water lilies kept rocking and the bugs just kept walking on the water that was briefly stained with a swirl of red. It was Tory’s turn to feel a deep welling up, but she postponed it. He looked at her. “You a Pointer?”
“Nossir. Iowa State, Sir, double-oh-nine.”
“I see. That’s okay. I’ve seen fine officers come out of ROTC.” He considered. “The first twenty years or so, you do real work. After that it’s politics. But you might as well start meeting people, as long as you're here in D.C. I'll think about who I can introduce you to.”
“Yessir. Thank you, Sir.”
“Another thing. Keep your head down, hear? It’s gonna get awful nasty over there in that convention center before they’re done screwing up our Constitution.” He rummaged for his camouflage cap. He muttered: “Victor Breen, my God! He’ll throw lightning bolts after me if I don’t treat you like my own granddaughter. You come see me on and off, okay? I’ll be camped in Rock Creek Park with the Composite. The wife and I enjoyed some dandy Bull Moose conventions at the Atlantic. I hope we get this crap done so I can get back to my real estate and my fishing hole.”
Rather than walk through the huge building, General Devereaux chose to take a long, brisk walk in the open to reach the mess hall. His chief of staff and assistants trailed, Tory at the rear with a command sergeant major who looked gentle enough to be a tailor or piano tuner. The open air between buildings was bracing. Gray, sweltering summer had changed to cool, bright autumn. Leaves had turned from green to wine red and siena and banana yellow. Evenings were clear-skied and had snap—sweater weather, football time, Tory thought.
The flag officers’ mess, located on the second floor of the A-ring, was a cavernous hall partitioned with oak paneling into separate dining areas. General Devereaux met three other retired reserve generals. He introduced her to his friends in turn: “Mark Nash, 699th Maine, drives tanks around. Ernie Thompson, 919th Virginia, artillery. And Conrad MacIntosh, 888th Colorado, transportation, trucks.” They were all very nice and shook her hand. Tory was so overwhelmed she hardly tasted her lunch. Afterward, free of generals and decorum, filled with memories of her grandfather, she stopped by a big old tree, leaned against its shedding white side, and wept.
|
