numbers might present logistical problems. Basically, there is no fraternization between officers and enlisted personnel, in life or in death.
I spotted Karl talking to Major Bowes, the about-to-be-fired CID commander, and Bowes had his heels together, nodding vigorously like a malfunctioning wind-up toy. Karl is not the kind of guy who would fire somebody on Christmas Eve, or at the person’s birthday party, or wedding, or anything like that. But he might consider it at a funeral.
Cynthia was speaking to Colonel and Mrs. Fowler and General and Mrs. Campbell, and I gave her credit for that. I always try to avoid that sort of situation, which I find awkward.
Taking stock of the known lovers, I also spotted Colonel Weems, the staff judge advocate, sans wife, and young Lieutenant Elby, who was clearly out of his depth in this situation, trying to look both sad and brave while keeping an eye on the mass of brass around him.
At the edge of the thinning crowd, I saw Warrant Officer Kiefer, dressed in her officer’s uniform now, which was the ticket of admission to this event. I went over to her, and I filled her in on the Batmobile. Despite the occasion, she seemed perky as usual, and I suspected that she was always perky. Jerk that I am, and needing some ego reinforcement, I shamelessly flirted with her.
She found this amusing and interesting, and we made indefinite plans to have drinks here, or back at Falls Church.
Cynthia tapped me on the shoulder and said, “We should be going.”
“Okay.” I said good-bye to Kiefer and walked toward the parking field.
Colonel Hellmann fell in with us, and we ran into Colonel Moore, who was obviously looking for me, a sheaf of typed papers in his hand. I introduced Moore to Hellmann, who did not acknowledge Moore’s extended hand and regarded him with a look that I never want to see directed at me.
Colonel Moore, however, was too dense to be flustered, and he said to me, “Here is the report you asked for.”
I took it, and following my commanding officer’s lead, I didn’t thank Moore, but said to him, “Please remain available today, do not speak to the FBI, and do not speak to Colonel Kent.”
I got into my Blazer and started it up. Cynthia and Karl got in after the air-conditioning got cranking. We fell in with a long line of vehicles all moving south on Chapel Road, toward Jordan Field. I said to Karl, “I promised Colonel Moore immunity if he cooperated.”
Karl, in the rear, said, “You’ve given more immunity this week than a doctor.” Fuck you, Karl.
Cynthia said, “That was a beautiful service.”
Karl asked me, “Are you certain about the chaplain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does everyone here know about everyone else?”
I replied, “To some extent. She was not discreet.”
Cynthia commented, “Do we have to talk about that at this time?”
I said to her, “Our commanding officer is entitled to any information he wants or needs at this time, or any other time.”
She looked out the side window and didn’t respond.
I glanced at Karl in the rearview mirror and saw that he was a bit taken aback at my curtness. I said to him, “The deceased’s West Point ring had been missing throughout the investigation, but I noticed it on her finger.”
“Really? Perhaps it’s a substitute.”
“Could be.”
Cynthia glanced at me, but didn’t say anything.
We passed Beaumont House, then, later, the Psy-Ops School, then skirted around Bethany Hill and found ourselves on Rifle Range Road.
It was noon, and the sun was so hot I could see heat ripples rising from the blacktop. I said to Colonel Hellmann, “The CID is officially relieved of this case as of now.”
“I’ve gotten us another hour as a result of my presence here, and I can get us another hour more.”
Lucky us. “That’s good,” I replied with zero enthusiasm.
I followed the long line of vehicles onto Jordan Field Road, and we passed the MP booth, where two unfortunate MP corporals were standing in the sun, saluting every car that went by.
More MPs were directing the vehicles to wide expanses of ample parking on the concrete in front of the hangars. I drove around awhile until I saw Kent’s staff car parked near hangar three. I parked close to it, and we all got out and followed the crowd to a designated assembly area. The body is usually interred at this point, of course, but in this case, the body was to be flown to Michigan for burial, and the Air Force had generously provided air transportation, a big, olive-drab C-130 that sat on the concrete apron nearby.
As I suspected, people who had not attended the chapel service had come to Jordan Field, including a hundred or so enlisted personnel in uniform, some of the curious from Midland and the surrounding area, plus veterans groups from town, and the remainder of Fort Hadley’s four hundred or so officers and spouses.
Everyone was assembled, including the band, the color guard, the firing party, and the honorary pallbearers. The drummer began beating a slow, muffled march, and the six casket bearers appeared from between two hangars wheeling the caisson to a spot near the open tailgate of the C-130. Those in uniform saluted, and those in civilian attire put their right hands over their hearts. The caisson was positioned in the patch of shade under the tail of the C-130. The drumming ceased, and everyone lowered their arms.
It was not only brutally hot, it was windless, and the flags never stirred unless one of the color guard moved the staff. The short ceremony proceeded.
The honorary pallbearers took the edges of the flag that was draped over the casket and held it waist-high over the casket as Chaplain Eames said, “Let us pray.” At the conclusion of the committal service, the chaplain intoned, “Grant her eternal rest, O Lord, and let Your perpetual light shine upon her. Amen.”
The seven-member firing party raised their rifles and fired three volleys into the air, and as the final volley trailed away, the bugler, stationed near the casket, sounded taps into the quiet air. I like this bugle call, and it is appropriate, I think, that the last call that a soldier hears at night has been chosen to be played over his or her grave to mark the beginning of the last, long sleep, and to remind those assembled that as day follows night, so will the final taps be followed by the great reveille to come.
The pallbearers folded the flag and gave it to Chaplain Eames, who presented it to Mrs. Campbell, who looked very dignified. They spoke a moment as everyone stood motionless.
It must have been the sun, I suppose, as well as the rifle volleys, the bugler, the associations with Fort Hadley and Jordan Field—but whatever it was, my mind went back to the summer of 1971, to the White Camellia Motel, of all places, a swinging spot on the highway outside of Midland, and I recalled a midnight pool party there at which no bathing suits were required. My God, I thought, how young we were, and how we stood that town on its ear—thousands of us full of hormones and alcohol. But we were not your typical carefree, callous youths with no thought of the future. Quite the opposite—the future hung over every thought, every word, every frenzied sexual encounter. Eat, drink, and be merry, we said, because the body bags were piling up at Jordan Field.
I recalled two infantry-school buddies who had been detailed to unload body bags here for a month or so. And one day, they got orders—not to Vietnam, but to Germany—and they kept reading the orders and made everyone else in the barracks read them, as if they had gotten a lawyer’s letter telling them they were heirs or titled nobility.
There appeared to be some cause-and-effect relationship between unloading bodies from Vietnam and not becoming one yourself, so, all of a sudden, hundreds of infantrymen were volunteering for the ghoul detail, hoping to get their tickets punched for Germany or some other good place. And so I unloaded bodies at Jordan Field, too, but the assumption that the Army was sensitive to the feelings of body handlers turned out to be untrue; I got my orders saying, “You are hereby ordered to report to Oakland Army Base for further assignment to Southeast Asia.” Even the Army didn’t use the “V” word.
I came back to the present, which was no less burdensome than the past. I saw the general and Mrs. Campbell speaking to a few people who had come forward, including family, the Fowlers, and the general’s aide, Captain Bollinger. The casket, I noted, was gone, and had been carried up the tailgate of the transport plane during my mental absence.
Suddenly, the four turboprops fired and exploded into action, giving off a deafening roar. Then the general
