Phoenix Rising

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Fort Rucker—Wednesday, July 18

In the Post Headquarters, General von Cairns sat in his swivel chair staring out through the window at the open parade ground and empty flagpole. He took another pull from his bottle of whiskey.

“You drink too much,” his wife had told him. “Ever since you came back from the war, you drink too much.”

“It helps me forget.”

“Forget what?”

“What I want to forget.”

Those discussions about drinking were the beginning of the problems that only got worse in his marriage. Then, two years ago, Kitty left him. But because their daughter was already married and gone, the breakup wasn’t that traumatic.

Von Cairns looked over at his bookshelf, filled with various artifacts that cataloged his time in the Army. There was a photo of him in his football uniform at West Point. Their record with Navy for the time von Cairns was a cadet was three losses and one tie, that game having been played before the NCAA had put in the tie-breaker system. Von Cairns had helped preserve the tie by intercepting a midshipman’s pass in the end zone. Among the other items were a bent tail rotor from a helicopter crash he had survived, a captured Iraqi flag, silver cups from half a dozen stateside assignments, and a black, polished, knobbed shillelagh called a “Garryowen stick.”

His first assignment out of West Point had been to the Seventh Cavalry, now at Fort Stewart, Georgia, but then he was stationed at Conn and Ledward Casernes in Schweinfurt, Germany. The Seventh Cavalry, “Custer’s Own,” had the nickname “Garryowen” and all the officers carried a swagger stick, the Garryowen stick.

There was something wonderful about being alive then, the tradition of being a part of such a storied unit, the pure joy of being a young single officer on flight status—they were still flying Hueys then—and being in Germany itself, the beer houses, the restaurants, and the outdoor markets, especially the flower markets. Germany was where he met Kitty, who had been, at the time, a schoolteacher in the American dependent children’s school.

He remembered the first time he ever saw her. It was in the officers’ club and she was sitting at a table with one of the other teachers. She had long dark brown hair and a wave of it kept falling across one eye, causing her to have to push it back. He thought she was absolutely beautiful, and he went over to introduce himself to her.

“I am Lieutenant Clifton von Cairns, and after I take you out to dinner tonight, you are going to write to your mother and tell her all about me.”

Kitty laughed at him, but she did go to dinner with him that night, and several nights thereafter until the other teachers and other officers would always include the two of them for any planned event.

They were so in love then. They went to Paris together, to London, and to Rome. They were married in Germany, first a German civil marriage, because the U.S. has no reciprocal marriage agreements with foreign countries, then in the post chapel, exiting under arched sabers. They swore to each that their love would last forever. But that—like everything else—was gone.

“Where are you now, Kitty?” von Cairns asked, speaking aloud, but quietly. “What are you doing this minute? Are you recalling our days together in Germany? Do you have any memories of that time? Are all your memories bad ones?” he continued, speaking softly. “I still love you, you know. I can’t tell you that. This is not the time for that. But I do hope that you have found happiness.”

Von Cairns turned up his whiskey bottle for another drink, but there was none left. And the way things were now, there was not likely to be any more.

Back in the BOQ, Lieutenant Phil Patterson was contemplating his situation. He rarely reported to work now; General von Cairns had told him there was really no need for him to come in. He had nothing left to read, and nothing left to do. There was no radio to listen to, no TV to watch. Newspapers and magazines were no longer being published.

How differently things had turned out from what he had imagined when, as a boy, he had dreams of going to West Point. He remembered that June day of graduation, the sense of accomplishment, and the pride he had in receiving his commission. Part of his dream had been to fly, and he fulfilled that as well, though it had now been over four months since last he flew.

He was frightened. Not the kind of fear one might get when his life is in imminent danger. There was, with that kind of fear, also a charge of adrenalin, an awareness of life, an excitement.

This fear was intense, mind-numbing, and paralyzing. He had no idea what was going to happen, but he knew it was going to be bad. Very bad. And worse, he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He had been thinking about it for several days now, and had even made preparations. Today he was going to leave.

Lieutenant Patterson drove down to the Headquarters Building and went into General von Cairns’s office. He wasn’t going to ask the general if he could leave; he was going to tell him that he was going to leave. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but it was something he was going to do, and he knew that, realistically, there was nothing the general could do about it.

He saw that the general’s chair was turned around and, as he often did, the general was staring through the window at the empty parade ground outside. He had been doing that more and more lately. And drinking—Patterson saw the empty whiskey bottle on the desk, just above the open drawer. At one point he wondered if he should make some comment about the general’s drinking, being very subtle about it. But he was just a lieutenant, and such a thing wasn’t his place.

“General,” Patterson said. “General, sir, I’m sorry sir, I wanted to stay and do all I could, but, to be honest, I don’t think there is anything left here I can do anymore. In fact, I don’t think there is anything anyone can do. My mom is alone back in Arkansas, and I haven’t heard from her in two weeks. I’m worried about her, and I’d like to go home. If you want me to just take a leave, I will do so. But, the way things are now, well, I hope you understand.” Patterson paused, waiting for the general to turn around and reply.

“General?” Patterson said again.

When the general still didn’t turn around, Patterson walked around the desk.

“Sir?”

Patterson stepped up to the general’s chair, then gasped out loud. The general’s head was back against the headrest and lolling over to one side. In his hand was an Army-issue M9 pistol. There was a black hole in his forehead, but a surprising lack of blood.

“I guess I’ll just go,” Patterson said in a quiet voice.

As he left the general’s office and walked through the cavernous HQ building, he did not encounter a single soul.

His car was full of gasoline and he had two five-gallon cans in the trunk. He hoped that would be enough to get him to Blytheville, Arkansas.

Fort Rucker—Friday, July 20

Jake was playing a game of solitaire when the phone rang.

“EFT, Major Lantz.”

“Major, this is Mr. Tadlock.”

“Yes, Chief, what can I do for you?”

“I’m calling you from the General’s office.”

“Okay, put him on.”

“Uh, no sir, I can’t do that.”

“Oh?”

“The reason I’m calling is I wonder if you could come over here.”

“I guess I can. I hate to waste the gas, but if the general needs me for some reason . . .”

“It isn’t the general who needs you, Major. I need you. Or at least, I need your advice. The general is dead.”

“What?”

“Looks like he committed suicide. He’s sittin’ here in his chair and there’s a pistol in his lap.”

“Where’s Lieutenant Patterson?”

“I don’t know, Major. He wasn’t here when I got here. Fact is, there’s not a soul in the whole damn building.”

“I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

Jake hung up the phone, then called out into the outer office. “Sergeant Major, are you out there?”

“Yes, sir,” Clay answered.

Jake walked out into the outer office and saw Clay just getting up from his desk.

“I’d like you to come to the general’s office with me if you would,” he said.

“Damn! He hasn’t caught on about the fuel requisitions, has he?”

“No. Ed Tadlock just called. The general is dead, Clay. Tadlock said he shot himself.”

“I’ll be damned. I thought von Cairns had more sand than that.”

Chief Warrant Officer-3 Edward Tadlock was waiting just outside the door to the Post Headquarters building when Jake and Clay arrived in Jake’s Jeep SUV.

“I waited out here,” Tadlock said. “I don’t mind telling you, it’s creepy as hell in there.”

“How do you know it was a suicide?” Jake asked. “Did he leave a note?”

“No, there was no note. But the pistol is still in his hand.”

“Let’s have a look.”

The three men went back inside the building, which, as Tadlock had said, was completely deserted.

“I’m taking off,” Tadlock said. “I’m going to Missouri. I own a small farm there, I’m going back to work it. My wife and kids are already there, waiting for me.”

“Do you have enough fuel to make it all the way to Missouri?”

“I’m driving a diesel, and running it on jet fuel. I bought thirty gallons extra from someone. I didn’t ask any questions as to where he got it.”

“Well, good luck to you, Chief,” Jake said.

When they stepped into the general’s office, he was still sitting in his swivel chair, facing the window that looked out over the parade ground.

“I left him just the way I found him,” Tadlock said.

Jake walked around to get a closer look at him. He shook his head. “Damn,” he said. “He was a good man. I hate to see this.”

“Ohmshidi killed him,” Tadlock said. “Yeah, von Cairns may have pulled the trigger, but Ohmshidi killed him.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Jake said.

“So now the question is, what do we do with him?”

“Does he have any next of kin?” Clay asked.

“He’s divorced, I know that,” Tadlock said.

“He has a daughter somewhere,” Jake said. “If we looked through all his things, we could probably find out where she is. But then what? The way things are now, what could she do with him?”

“We can’t leave him here,” Tadlock said.

“Let’s bury him out there on the parade ground, under the flagpole,” Clay suggested.

“Damn good idea, Sergeant Major, damn good idea,” Tadlock said.

Clay went to the general’s quarters to get his dress blue uniform and he and Jake dressed the general, including all his medals. While they were doing that, Tadlock rounded up as many officers and men as he could, including seven men who would form a firing squadron to render last honors, and one bandsman who agreed to play taps.

Now the general lay in a main-rotor shipping case alongside a grave that three of the EM had dug. There were over fifty men and women present, in uniform, and in formation. The general was lowered into the grave, and Jake nodded at the firing team. The seven soldiers raised their rifles to their shoulders.

“Ready? Fire!”

The sound of the first volley echoed back from the buildings adjacent to the parade ground.

“Ready? Fire!”

Rifle fire, which, during his life, the general had heard in anger, now sounded in his honor.

“Ready? Fire!”

The last volley was fired, and those who were rendering hand salutes brought them down sharply.

The bandsman, a bespectacled specialist, raised a trumpet to his lips and with the first and third valves depressed, played taps.

Jake thought of the many times he had heard this haunting bugle call, at night in the barracks while in basic training, and in OCS. He had also heard it played for too many of his friends, killed in combat or in aircraft accidents.

The young soldier played the call slowly and stately, holding the higher notes, gradually getting louder, then slowing the tempo as he reached the end, and holding the final, middle C longer than any other note before, he allowed it simply and sadly to . . . fade away.