James Shipman - Task Force Baum

Hall felt his heart racing in his chest. Oh no .

Stiller opened the package and pulled out a letter, making a great show of scanning the contents. A crease crossed his forehead and deepened as the crimson flush returned to his cheeks. “Imagine my surprise when Patton handed me this. My own aide writing directly to the general to ask for a transfer.”

“I can explain, sir. I told you what I wanted—”

“And I told you that you’d damned well stay right where you are!”

“But, sir, the war is almost over, and I’ve got to get some combat time. If I don’t—”

The major leaned forward, pointing a finger. “I don’t give a damn about your combat experience, Lieutenant. I care about finishing this war. Now, you asked me direct about finding you a patrol or something, so you could get some exposure. Do you think you’re the first little shirttail lieutenant that’s asked? What did I tell you?”

“You told me that you’d find a chance sometime.”

“That’s right. I told you I’d take care of it,” said Stiller, his voice rising an octave. He rang his spittoon again, the force almost knocking the container over.

“That was months ago. I’ve asked a few times, and you always give me the same answer. Now it’s almost too late.”

“So you went over my head to the general!” Stiller was screaming now. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I… I just thought he might help. He knows my father—”

“I’m aware of that, Hall! I know your father too. Trust me, you are not your father! He might have landed you this staff position, but that don’t give you any special rights to go over my head!” The major stood, his eyes still looking up at the lieutenant. “Now you listen here, you little shit. You are gonna keep your mouth shut from now on, do you hear? You are gonna get your work done and do as you’re told. You can forget a combat patrol after this bullshit. The closest you’re going to get to the action is your damned desk! Do you hear me? Stand at attention, boy!”

Hall stiffened and stood rail straight, staring ahead.

“One last thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If I catch you drinking on duty ever again, you’ll be out of the army so damned fast you won’t know what hit you. And I don’t give a shit who your daddy is. You got that, boy?”

Christ, he knows. Hall saluted again. He willed himself to stay calm.

“Now get out of my sight!”

Hall turned to go, but the door opened before he reached it. A corporal stepped through and saluted nervously.

“What is it?” snapped Stiller impatiently.

“Orders from headquarters, sir,” said the corporal.

The major waved the man over and retrieved an envelope. He lifted a bayonet from the table and deftly sliced open the packet. He scanned the note, his face creasing into a frown. “I’ve been summoned to see the chief. Hall, you stay here and take any incoming messages.”

“You’re both supposed to come,” said the corporal.

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at the envelope, sir; it’s addressed to both you and the lieutenant.”

Stiller pulled the paper up and read the front. “That’s fine, Corporal; you’re dismissed.” The enlisted man saluted and rapidly retreated from the room. A slow smile creased over the corners of the major’s mouth.

“Looks like Patton wants to address you direct, Hall. I wondered why he sent me your letter.” Stiller shook his head and gave a whistle. “Oh boy, that’s not too good, Hall. I figured he’d have me chew you out one-on-one, but if he’s summoning you to an interview, he must want a little bite of you himself.” The major chuckled. “Maybe you shouldn’t get too used to your desk job after all. It might be the slow boat home for you. Get yourself cleaned up. That tie is a mess, and your shirt is wrinkled. You know how Patton feels about that stuff. I’ll meet you in five minutes, and we’ll head over together.” Stiller rubbed his coarse hands together. “I don’t want to miss this. Dismissed.”

Hall saluted again and was finally allowed to depart. He fled the major’s office in dismay. The brandy sat heavy in his stomach now, burning like acid. His mind reeled. He’d been so sure the letter would get him what he wanted. Patton was a friend of his dad’s, after all. He wasn’t asking for much. Just a few hours of combat and maybe a medal. He’d seen plenty of other staff officers get the same treatment in the few months he’d been there. What was the point of connections if you couldn’t get a promotion and a citation out of it? He’d thought Stiller was keeping him down, but now it looked like the old man was gunning for him too. What the hell? Why’d he join in the first place? His dad said it would be easy. A commission, a position on Patton’s staff, a promotion or two, and then a civilian future in Spokane when he came home a hero.

He scrambled to his room, throwing on a new tie and dusting off his clothes. Patton was a notorious stickler for uniforms. When he thought he was presentable, he made his way back toward Stiller’s office, waiting for the jeep that would take him to his destiny.

Hall and Stiller maintained an icy silence during the short ride to Patton’s headquarters in an adjoining villa. Two GIs snapped to attention as the officers scurried into the building. An aide sitting at a desk in front of the lieutenant general’s office waved Stiller past but motioned for Hall to wait. The lieutenant looked around at the walnut-paneled walls of the entry room, filled with oil paintings depicting landscapes from the countryside. He thought about quizzing the aide for information about the meeting, but the sergeant was busy with a pile of papers and the telephone, which seemed to never stop ringing. Hall sighed and found himself a seat to wait for the impending chew-out.

He wondered if Stiller would tell Patton about the drinking? He didn’t have any proof, just the major’s word against his. Still, who would the general believe? Drinking on duty was a serious offense. If Patton chose, he could court-martial Hall. He would never do that to his friend’s son, though, would he? His dad had served with Patton in World War I. They had stayed in contact even after his father left the army and started a law practice in Spokane. His dad knew Stiller too, although not as well. Surely these men would not take drastic action against him.

No, he’d be fine, he decided. A slap on the hand at the worst. It would be no different than at the college. He remembered with an internal chuckle the test questions he was caught with at Washington State. They’d threatened to kick him out then too. A lot of yelling and posturing until his father stepped in. He’d get out of this okay.

Still, what if they wouldn’t let him into combat? He just wanted one mission. One glorious action yielding a Bronze Star or, better yet, a Silver One. Promotion to captain would surely follow, and he would go home a hero, well positioned to rise high in his father’s firm, if he chose law school, or commercial real estate with his uncle. From there, Congress always beckoned. His father talked about it often enough, that was for sure.

He couldn’t come home with nothing, though. That’s what Stiller threatened now. Returning as a staff lieutenant with no combat experience at all? There would be scores of young men with medals and glory. Too many fish to swim with, even in little Spokane. He couldn’t allow it. His father had made that clear, and Patton had promised. Safety and position, mixed with just enough controlled combat experience to win his laurels. They had to give him a chance. This was his future! He felt his blood rising. Who did they think they were?