Authors: III William E. Butterworth
“Decisions like that, my son, are made by Saint Peter, not by a humble clergyman of the Church of the Burning Bush now serving as a U.S. Army chaplain, such as myself. But I can tell you that he won't be coming back from wherever Saint Peter decided he should go.”
“Oh,” Phil said. “I see.”
“Excuse me, Sergeant Williams,” the Red Cross Girl said. “Is that a gun in a shoulder holster I see now that you've unbuttoned your jacket?”
“A U.S. Pistol, Caliber .45 ACP 1911A1, as a matter of fact.”
“Why did you ask him such a question, Gwendolyn?” the chaplain said.
“Because when I was in Red Cross Girl School, they said it was very important to learn as much as possible about the poor enlisted men you might have to comfort in their hour of need before you actually start to comfort them,” Gwendolyn replied.
“That's true, Brother Bobby,” the Red Cross man said. “And if you think about it, it makes sense.”
“Very well,” the Reverend Brother Bobby said, “ask away, Gwendolyn. That's what you're here to do, comfort this poor enlisted man in his sorrow.”
“And since you're wearing that very nice tweed jacket with leather trimming and not an olive drab uniform, and living in the field grade bachelor officers' hotel, would I be out of line to suspect that you're not an ordinary, run-of-the-mill enlisted man?”
“Actually, Gwendolyn, I'm a special agent of the Counterintelligence Corps. That's how come I'm wearing civilian clothing, under which I'm carrying a .45, and living in the field grade bachelor officers' hotel.”
“I saw the movie!” Gwendolyn cried excitedly. “Some actorâI can't remember whoâplayed CIC Special Agent Trueheart, and he went through the halls of Congress shooting what he called nutty right-wing congressmen all over the place.”
“I believe he was portraying a
rogue
CIC agent, Gwendolyn, in the motion picture to which you refer,” Phil said. “In the real world, we CIC agents do not roam through the halls of Congress shooting anybody.”
“Perhaps after these two leave, and I'm here comforting you, you can clear that up for me.”
“Anything I can do to help, Gwendolyn,” Phil said.
“Actually, my son,” Lieutenant Colonel Robert R. Williams, Chaplains Corps, USA, a/k/a the Reverend Brother Bobby, said, “we're just about through here. I came to tell you your Daddy has joined the ranks of the Dear Departed, and I've done that, and Mr. Aristotle Jones here of the Red Cross has come to tell you why it will not be necessary for you to return to the United States for the internment of your departed loved one's remains.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, primarily because not much remains of his remains. His remains were not found for six days after his demise and consequently were a little ripe when found. For that reason, the remains were quickly cremated and then spread around the Harvard Yard in Cambridge, Massachusetts.”
“I see.”
“Your late father's sister, your Aunt Grace, who was in charge of everything, has promised to write you and give you all the pertinent details. You should have that letter in a day or two, providing of course that Miss Williams puts an airmail stamp on the envelope. Otherwise it will take a little longer to reach you.”
“I understand.”
“We will leave now, leaving Gwendolyn to comfort you.”
They did and she did.
Gwendolyn said she was willing, so as to be better able to comfort him in his time of sorrow, to learn about his life, so he taught her what Magda Countess Kocian had taught him about
Forrós magyar Nyalókát
, and once he had turned her into his
Forró Sioux Falls, S.D., Nyalókát
, or Hot Sioux Falls, South Dakota Lollipop, she really couldn't get enough.
Finally, exhausted, he was able to talk Gwendolyn into going back to the Berlin Red Cross Club so that she could pass out comfort in the form of doughnuts and Coca-Cola to other enlisted men.
She gave him her telephone numberâwhich was strictly against
the rules, as Red Cross Girls are not permitted to socialize with enlisted menâand he promised to call her.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said, but he didn't mean it.
The letter from Aunt Grace came four days later.
MISS GRACE ALICE PATRICIA HORTENSE WILLIAMS
MAYFLOWER-WILLIAMS HOUSE
BACK BAY, BOSTON, MASS.
Dear Nephew Philip:
By now I presume you have been apprised of the demise of my brother and your father, the late P. Wallingford Williams, Jr.
The cause of death was the rupture of an aortal aneurism. I have been assured that death came both quickly and painlessly, although with regard to the latter it was an unnecessary blessing as a blood test indicated the amount of alcohol in his system meant he had been incapable of feeling any pain for the four hours previous to his fall, apparently while trying to make his way from his bed to the water closet in his bathroom at approximately 3:25 a.m.
He was interred, so to speak, in the Harvard Yard in Cambridge, just as soon as the UPS-expedited special-delivery service could get his ashes from the Manhattan Crematorium to Boston. While the Harvard Men's Glee Club provided appropriate music by singing “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder,” a delegation of the Hasty Pudding Club scattered your Daddy's ashes across the yard.
I am sure you will be relieved to hear that I, to preserve the reputation of the Williams name, have taken care of all of the debts your father left, of which there was a plethora, including a mind-boggling one from J. Press, where, at about the time you were sent to Germany, your father apparently went on a drunken clothes-buying spree.
As the figure is a five-digit negative there is no point in getting into the details of your inheritance here.
Which brings us to your future:
I have spoken to Dr. Peabody at Groton, and he has agreed, providing you can convince him you have learned your lesson in the Army, and intend to lead a decent and chaste life in the future, to let you back in on a probationary basis, which means that you will wait on tables during the week, and cut the campus grass, pick up leaves, or shovel snow, depending on the season, on afternoons and weekends.
I remain, faithfully yours,
Aunt Grace
A week after that, Phil received a letter from his mother:
Dear Philip:
Ever since I heard of the passing of your late father from your late father's sister, your Aunt Grace, I have had several conversations with my husband, Keyes Michaels, M.D., who is now your stepfather, about your future.
“My own Sigmund Freud,” as I so fondly call him, has willingly accepted his new responsibilities in your regard, to wit:
You may now call him “Daddy” or “Daddy Keyes.” The choice is yours.
He is prepared to provide, pro bono, which means “for free,” whatever psychiatric counseling you require to get you through both your grief and the trauma to your id caused by your service as a common enlisted man in the Army.
Additionally, and this is the really good news, your Daddy Keyes has arranged for your matriculation in St. Hippolytus's School for Troubled But Possibly Salvageable Through Tough Love Youth.
The school, in Pascagoula, Arkansas, is a joint venture of the Jesuit Order and the Brothers of St. Hippolytus. The former deals with academic matters, and the latter with disciplinary issues. Saint Hippolytus of Rome is the patron saint of jailers.
Please let me and Daddy Keyes know as soon as you can when you will be paroled or otherwise let loose from the Army so we can get the ball rolling.
Love,
Mother
Â
P.S. in re: Your late father's golf clubs.
Inasmuch as she doesn't play golf, your Aunt Grace, who didn't want them, sent them here via Recipient Pays Shipping Charges. And since you don't play golf, and your new stepfather does, I knew you would want Daddy Keyes to have them, so I gave them to him.
[ FOUR ]
Berlin, Germany
Wednesday, December 15, 1948
J
ust over a year later, a master sergeant wearing as many medals and ribbons as Phil had ever seen appeared at Phil's office door.
During that year, a good deal, good and bad, had happened.
For one thing, he got to go back to the Pferd und Frauen, something he had secretly hungered to do since his first visit. And he didn't have to sneak into it as he thought he might have to do. He was ordered to go there, by none less than Pastor-in-Chief Caldwell. And an order from Pastor-in-Chief Caldwell was like a deep voice from On High accompanied by the sound of celestial trumpets.
What happened was that Pastor-in-Chief Caldwell called him into the office and said that he had just had a call from the Honorable Ralph Peters telling him that the German-American Gospel Tract Foundation was about to be visited by Sir Oswald T. Cholmondeley, OBE, Knight Commander of the Garter, and DSO, who, using the beard “QT,” headed the British MI-5, which was more or less the British equivalent of the CIA.
“Now, ol' Chummy isn't a problem. Ol' Ralph Peters, I, and ol' Chummy are old chums from the good old days of World War Two, and I don't mind at all showing him all the secrets of the German-American Gospel Tract Foundation. But he's bringing with him his aide-de-camp, Second Lieutenant Charles William George Michael Bertram of His Majesty's Own Scottish Light Lancers, who is the son of the Earl of Abercrombie.”
“How is that a problem, sir?”
“Just because someone has four first names and lives in a castle, Phil,
doesn't mean he gets to learn all the secrets of the German-American Gospel Tract Foundation. I'm surprised I have to tell you that.”
“I didn't think that through, sir. Sorry.”
“So, what I want you to do, Phil, is entertain this Scotchman while he's here.”
“Yes, sir. How should I do that?”
“Take him anyplace he wants to go, let him do whatever he wants to do.”
“Sir, what if he wants to do something like go to the Pferd and Frauen?”
Pastor-in-Chief Caldwell, shaking his head, had looked at Phil for a long time. Finally, he said, “I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you, Phil, that you were one of us. I don't mean just socially. I mean one of us, intelligence-wise. I congratulate you for thinking of something I, as an intelligence officer of great experience, should have thought of myself.
“By all means, after laying on a photographer first, take ol' Four First Names to the Pferd und Frauen. It might be very useful in the future when dealing with my old chum Cholmondeley to have a pictureâhalf a dozen picturesâin the files of his aide-de-camp cavorting with a naked woman on a Clydesdale. Philâplease don't let this go to your headâI think you have a great future in our chosen profession.”
When Phil first met Second Lieutenant Charles William George Michael Bertram of His Majesty's Own Scottish Light Lancers, he wasn't at all sure Cholmondeley's aide-de-camp would be at all interested in cavorting with a naked woman on a Clydesdale, because the young Scot was wearing a skirt.
An hour or so and half a bottle of Famous Pheasant later, however, he was convinced that the young Scot was as heavy on his feet as he himself was, and half convinced that what the young man he was now
calling “Bertie” had told him about “kilt” wearing being common in Scotland was true.
So they went to Pferd und Frauen, where the future Earl of Abercrombie, calling out, “Hi-Yo, Silver! Away!” took first place with the lady Valkyrie riding the Clydesdale with him in the 3 a.m. steeplechase competition.
And while the prize, a two-liter bottle of Slivovitz, was being awarded, Phil removed the film from the photographer's camera.
â
Other good things
that happened included Phil's triumph at the Second Annual Berlin Brigade Brandenburg Gate Skeet Shoot. There he won “The Hundred Straight Grand Prize,” which was another 12-bore Browning Diamond Grade
und so weiter
shotgun. At the presentation ceremony, Phil dropped into the conversation that he already had an identical weapon.
“This one,” Phil said, holding up the year-old 12-bore Browning Diamond Grade
und so weiter
shotgun he had won the previous year and which he had just used to go one hundred straight so that the press and Browning company photographers could get their own good “shots.”
The man from Browning gritted his teeth and said the Browning company would be delighted to swap the second 12-bore Browning Diamond Grade
und so weiter
shotgun for a 16-bore version of the weapon, if that would make Staff Sergeant Williams happy, and providing he was willing to make a statement to the press, while holding one hand on a Bible, that he would have been unable to go one hundred straight without using a 12-bore Browning Diamond Grade
und so weiter
shotgun.
Phil agreed to do so, even though he knew it would almost certainly get him in trouble with his new boss, Pastor-in-Chief Peter
O'Shaughnessy, who had replaced Pastor-in-Chief Jonathan Caldwell III. But that's getting ahead of the narrative of this romance novel.
Getting back to it:
Phil did make the sworn statement before the press, even knowing that he could have gone one hundred straight firing a Sears, Roebuck Single Shot Youth Special, which went for a relatively few dollars, as opposed to the
EXPLETIVE DELETED!!
incredible price Browning not only asked but got for their Diamond Grade
und so weiter
shotguns, and thus he was not being entirely truthful.
By then Phil had learned that in the intelligence profession, there is truth and then there is truth, and that the truth that matters is that truth which does one the most good at that moment. In this case, telling a little white lie seemed entirely justified since it resulted in his now having two Browning Diamond Grade
und so weiter
shotguns in alligator-hide cases.