The Hunting Trip (30 page)

It is germane to note here that at this time Phil was being compensated for his labor at the USAAMU at a monthly rate of $367.70, and thus regarded each of the $500 checks as a
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fortune.

It is also germane to note here that Phil had learned that Brunhilde devoutly believed that money was made to be spent as quickly as possible and as he thought he should be establishing a little nest egg for his soon-to-be-born firstborn, he didn't tell her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about his income from his creative writing. Specifically, he told her the total amount came to $500.

She was pleased to hear this, commenting that perhaps his idea to be a writer wasn't as much of a
dumme
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Verschwendung von Zeit
as she had previously thought.

The next step in Phil's new publishing career came with the arrival of the galley page proofs for
Comfort Me With Love
. When ol' Cumings had telephoned to announce, “I'm shipping you the galleys,” Phil had a mental picture of two or more old-time nautical vessels with banks of oars protruding from their sides arriving at Quarters 103B on Bataan Death March Avenue on a flatbed eighteen-wheel truck.

The galleys turned out to be unbound pages of
Comfort Me With Love
. As soon as he made any corrections to them, the corrected pages would be sent to the printer for printing, binding, and ultimate release to the public.

Then Phil saw the title page:
A Novel by Philip W. Williams III
.

And he was as unexpectedly thrilled as he had been when he went in their bedroom at the Hotel Bristol and found Brunhilde lying on the bed in transparent intimate undergarments and with a rose in her teeth.

It was, like the sight of Brunhilde lying on the bed in transparent intimate undergarments and with a rose in her teeth the day of their marriage, something he would remember to his dying day.

But then a chill swept through his body.

He suddenly realized that with his name on the cover, the Army would quickly deduce that the literary lion writing in such detail about the hanky-panky of majors and up and their dependents was actually Technical Sergeant P. W. Williams of the USAAMU and then his
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or his
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—probably both—would really be in a crack.

What he needed was a
nom de plume
, which since he now spoke French, he knew meant pen name.

After many hours of deep thought and study of telephone books,
he had narrowed the myriad name possibilities down to two. One was “Tom Clancy,” which he thought had a really nice writer's ring to it, and the other was “Wallingford Philips,” of which he one day could prove ownership if the need arose.

Unable to make an intellectual decision between the two, he flipped a coin . . . and Tom Clancy lost.

[ SIX ]

Fort Benning, Georgia

Monday, June 5, 1950

W
hen the first ten free bound copies of
Comfort Me With Love
by Wallingford Philips arrived several months later, he looked at his first published work as awestruck as he would be at 0545 the next day when he looked for the first time at the somewhat ruddy wrinkled face of Brunhilde Williams.

Not his wife, but his firstborn.

The way that happened was that shortly after one a.m., he had been awakened by Brunhilde, who reeked of Slivovitz and had a cigar clenched between her teeth.

“Take me to the hospital!” she had ordered. “My day of reckoning for not being able to control my lust has arrived.”

“I couldn't help but smell the Slivovitz and see the cigar,” Phil said as he hastily dressed.

“I've been on the wagon for eight months,” Brunhilde replied. “And suffered the pangs of unsatisfied nicotine addiction for a like
period. That's over. It's been over since Mother Nature told me This Is The Day, which occurred about a half hour ago. Got it?”

Approximately four hours later, he was allowed into Brunhilde's room, where Brunhilde was cradling an infant in her arms. The only reason Phil was allowed into the room at that time was that the chief of obstetrical services hoped that Brunhilde's husband could convince the new mother to give up her cigar, which he had been so far unable to do.

Finally, the chief of obstetrical services admitted defeat and left the new family alone.

“What are we going to call it?” Phil asked.

“It's a her, stupid,” the new mother said.

“Well, what are we going to call her?”

“If she had been a he, what would you have suggested we call him?”

“I was thinking along the lines, should that have occurred, of Philip Wallingford Williams the Fourth. Sort of a familial tradition.”

“I think it's a great familial tradition,” Brunhilde said. “Say hello to your daughter Brunhilde, Daddy.”

[ SEVEN ]

Fort Benning, Georgia

Friday, October 6, 1950

T
he next four months or so were a mixed bag for Phil.

On one hand, he realized that for the first time in his life, he was really in love.

With Brunhilde—the one in diapers, of course.

On those rare occasions when he was allowed to hold his firstborn in his arms, he made goo-goo eyes at her and made strange noises, to which she responded in kind.

He came to understand that Brunhilde was the only child he would ever have, as the day he brought Brunhilde and Brunhilde home from the hospital Brunhilde (the mother) moved him out of their bedroom and into the nursery, telling him that when the time came, she would move Brunhilde (the one in diapers) out of what had been their bedroom and back into the nursery and he could move back into Bedroom #1 with her.

From the way Brunhilde (the mother) was treating him—actually not treating him . . . it was as if he had suddenly become invisible—he thought that when the time came for him to move back into their bedroom, they would have to roll him in on a wheelchair from where he would be living in the geriatric intensive care ward.

On the other hand, things at the USAAMU went well. He finally had enough of picking up brass and empty shot shells and “earned his way” off the Junior Varsity and into the big time, or Varsity.

What actually happened was that he had about six beers too many at lunch and forgot himself. What he did specifically was go ninety-eight straight—the first time he'd done that on a USAAMU range. Then, with two shells left, he compounded his sin by turning his back on the traps, bending over so that his head and the Remington Skeet Special were between his knees, and called for “doubles,” which caused two birds to be thrown simultaneously from both the High House and the Low House. Both birds, which were of course #99 and #100 in his possible one hundred straight, disappeared in two puffs of black dust.

He waited for the ax to fall, but it didn't.

Master Sergeant Percy J. Quigley personally pinned his “1st Award—100-Straight” embroidered patch to Phil's shooting vest at a specially called Retreat Parade, welcomed him to the Varsity Team, and told him to pack his bags, as the Varsity Team was going to Fort Dix, New Jersey, to compete against a team from the U.S. Coast Guard.

From the moment Phil had taken his head and the Model 1100 Skeet Special from between his knees, Phil had really expected that Master Sergeant Percy J. Quigley would personally take him over to the NCO Academy in handcuffs to begin the “eight or more hours a day, to the point of exhaustion, day after day, in the dark” regimen that would last until the day his enlistment was up.

The only things Phil could think of to explain Quigley's not having done so were that Quigley planned to arrange a fatal accident on the Fort Dix Skeet Range. Or that Quigley, himself a father, knew that new fathers often lost control, and took pity on him. Whatever the reason, Phil vowed it would be a cold day in hell before he would ever again be so foolish as to go one hundred straight again.

When he told Brunhilde that he was reluctantly going to have to leave her and Brunhilde alone for a few days, as the Army was sending him to Fort Dix, she replied, “I don't give a good
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where you go.”

It was a reply Phil would grow very accustomed to as the years passed.

[ EIGHT ]

Fort Dix, New Jersey

Tuesday, October 10, 1950

T
hey had no sooner gotten off the bus that delivered them to the Transient NCO Quarters at Fort Dix when Master Sergeant Percy J. Quigley took Technical Sergeant Williams's arm and said, “We have to talk!”

He led him to a small room and closed the door.

“Phil, did you see that
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sign?”

“Which
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sign was that, Master Sergeant Quigley?”

“The one that said ‘Welcome USAAMU Skeet Team.' That
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sign.”

“Yes, I did. I thought it was a nice gesture on the part of Fort Dix.”

“Phil, the people we brought with us are not on the USAAMU Skeet Team. They are on the Fort Benning Skeet Team.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“We are going to compete against the U.S. Coast Guard Skeet Team. You know what that means, of course.”

“I'm not sure.”

“The
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Coast Guard has two hundred and thirty-five
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installations around the world, each of which has a skeet field and a skeet team. They also have a bunch of
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boats from which they shoot at birds off the back.”

“That's very interesting.”

“The result of what I just told you is that the Coast Guard team against which what they think is the USAAMU team will compete consists of the best
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shooters in the entire
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U.S. Coast Guard. There is little question in my mind that the USAAMU Skeet Team could take them in fair conflict, but we don't have the USAAMU Skeet Team here with you and me. What we have is the Fort Benning Skeet Team, which is sort of the Junior Varsity to the USAAMU Skeet Team.”

“You're suggesting there is a chance we could lose?”

“Indeed I am. And those
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sailors in the funny hats and the pants with thirteen buttons on the fly know that. The USAAMU Skeet Team is about to be grossly humiliated by the Junior Varsity of the U.S. Navy, a/k/a the
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U.S.
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Coast Guard. Unless . . .”

“Unless what, Master Sergeant Quigley?”

“Unless, against the odds, I manage to break my third one hundred straight.”

“Good luck, Master Sergeant Quigley.”

“And you, Technical Sergeant Williams, go three hundred straight.”

“What makes you think I could accomplish such an amazing feat of marksmanship?”

“Because, Technical Sergeant Williams, the U.S. Army skeet world is a small world and I know who you are.”

“Excuse me?”

“Where are you hiding those two Diamond Grade Brownings with full factory engraving, gold triggers, and selective ejectors, Williams, under your
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mattress?”

Phil blushed.

“Well, I guess my secret is no longer a secret. Why didn't you say anything?”

“Are you asking why didn't I drag your
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over to the NCO Academy and tell my friends there to really sock it to you, subjecting you to physical training ‘eight or more hours a day, to the point of exhaustion, day after day, in the dark'?”

“I admit the thought may have crossed my mind, Master Sergeant Quigley.”

“I was going to wait for you to humiliate me with your superior marksmanship before our teammates
and then
I was going to drag your
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over to the NCO for
twelve
hours of physical training to the point of exhaustion, day after day, in the dark.”

“I see.”

“But you didn't do that. You were a team player. Not only did you keep your average well below mine, but you gave your teammates little pointers so they could up their averages.”

“I thought that was the right thing for me to do.”

“So the choice is yours, Technical Sergeant Williams. You can go three hundred straight tomorrow and save the USAAMU from humiliation at the hands of the
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U.S. Coast Guard, in which case all will be forgiven, I will name you deputy chief marksmanship instructor of the USAAMU and you can have just about anything else your little heart desires. Alternatively, if you do not go three hundred straight tomorrow, say hello to the NCO Academy of the U.S. Army School of Infantry Excellence and
twelve
hours of physical training to the point of exhaustion, day after day, in the dark, until your period of enlistment concludes.”

“Would that anything else my little heart desires include a forty-eight-hour pass?”

“What an odd question.”

“I have a friend in New York City, a chap I went to school with, who has been after me, if I had happened to be in the neighborhood, to drop in for a chat.”

“You go three hundred straight tomorrow and you can have two weeks to go to New York to chat with your friend.”

“Forty-eight hours will be more than enough, as I am anxious to return to Fort Benning and my darling Brunhilde, the one in diapers.”

[ NINE ]

The Harvard Club

27 West 44th Street

New York City, New York

Thursday, October 12, 1950

P
hil, two days later, at the noon hour, turned off West Forty-fourth Street and passed through the portals of the Harvard Club of New York, Inc., and told the man at the desk that he was to be the luncheon guest of Mr. Cumings Bradshaw.