Once an Eagle

  “Yes, sir,” one of his assistants answered quickly. “But they said they hadn’t finished digging out.”

  “It’s amazing what two hundred pounds of plastique can do,” Massengale observed, looking off at the trees at the edge of the pool, drooping now in the still heat of noon. “Amazing and shocking. When it’s in the wrong hands.”

  “Isn’t it possible to set up tighter security measures?” the Undersecretary asked, with a trace of irritation. “We talked about that at the conference Tuesday, I know.” The dawn bombing of the Rigord, which he had passed on his way in from the airport, had apparently shaken him up a good deal. Massengale could imagine the scene readily enough: the fine white French colonial facade pocked and blackened, the wailing ambulances, the medics groping around in the rubble, the heaps of pulverized glass that gritted savagely underfoot, the supine figures, the blood. All this in the soft rose-and-lavender light.

  “We’ve increased guards and set up new posts in various places,” he answered, “and we’ve taken various other security precautions. But three or four members of a Hai Minh suicide club bent on taking out a restaurant or hotel are pretty hard to stop. With fanaticism of that caliber there’s not an awful lot one can do. We’re still here in what’s little more than an advisory capacity. If we were here in force, with the corresponding authority …”

  He let the phrase hang in the air and signaled to Phat to bring them all another round. It would be good to let the air clear a little. Graulet was on tenterhooks and he threw him a covert, forbidding glance. Overanxiety was the death of the diplomatic process. There was some inconsequential small talk and then Massengale asked lightly, “And what was the decision about our little Chinese excursion?” although he sensed what the answer would be.

  “… The decision was no.” The Undersecretary seemed oddly apologetic. “The Secretary felt it would involve us in a greater commitment than we could sustain at this time. The current thinking is that Russia and China are at present nonimminent enemies, and that it would be ill advised to bring one or both of them in as active belligerents, particularly with regard to an operation involving so many intangibles.” The Undersecretary paused thoughtfully. “Actually it’s considered more important at the moment to negotiate with General Hoanh-Trac and secure his support, if we can. Our government will support a UN resolution to expedite the removal of the Chinese Nationalist divisions.” The Undersecretary seemed still more apologetic. “In point of fact I’ve been instructed to pick Damon up at Pnom Du and fly on up to Plei Hoa—or as near as we can get to Plei Hoa—to confer with Hoanh-Trac tomorrow.”

  Massengale studied the end of his jade holder intently for a moment. So there it was. Fantastic. That bastard Damon. They were going to pass up a crystal opportunity like this because that sanctimonious old woman had started invoking doom and destruction. Disgusting! He puffed swiftly at his cigarette, sent smoke swirling around him.

  “The Generalissimo will take a very grave view of that,” he permitted himself to say.

  “I know.” The Undersecretary smiled ruefully. “So did Vu Khoi. I’ve just spent most of the morning squaring it with him.” He set down his drink and leaned forward. “I hope you won’t be put out at not being brought in on these negotiations, Courtney. It was felt that your—uh, concern for the Generalissimo’s position might militate against a favorable settlement.”

  “I quite understand.” That was that. It was out. That filthy swine Damon. Rusticating away nicely in Carmel and then dropping in here out of the blue and wrecking everything, in one stupid swipe. Everything. And so they were going to knuckle under to the milksops and mollycoddles in the Administration. The idiots! A priceless chance to put Chiang back on the mainland, throw the Communists off balance, seal off Indochina in toto. What the devil did it matter if that simpering little monkey was or was not drifting into the hands of the Reds? Tell the world he was one, and let him worry about it. If they were to mount an attack in force he’d see the light soon enough, never fear. But no—they were all wound up in scruples and panics over that damned bomb. God, what a red herring. What earthly difference did it make? In war, as in diplomacy, you used what means would accomplish your purposes. But they were scared witless of the namby-pamby liberals, the ADA types who read the New Republic and the Nation, who wanted to integrate schools and worship the Negroes and—

  But that Damon should have done this! That stolid, quixotic, stubborn numbskull …

  Never kick over the pail: you might need the milk for breakfast yourself. Uncle Schuyler’s line: nice and folksy. Well, he was probably right at that. Perhaps something could still be salvaged. It was possible: it was always possible.

  He suppressed his rage without a tremor. “Well,” he said, and gave a regretful smile, “that’s it, then. I won’t pretend I’m delighted—you know me better than that.”

  “I realize how much confidence you had in the plan.”

  “In point of fact I’m a touch mortified—I’ve always looked on myself as a rather persuasive type. But Damon seems to have put me in the shade …”

  The Undersecretary twisted in his chair. “Well, the decision was necessarily—and quite properly—the Secretary’s, of course.”

  “Of course. But I imagine the phrasing of the report had something to do with it, too.”

  Had he gone too far? The Undersecretary’s glance was filled with resentful candor—the sixth-form boy accused of coming unprepared to recitation. “I think I can say it was a substantially impartial report, General,” he said a bit stiffly.

  Massengale laughed and nodded. “I’m sure it was. See it as the measure of my confidence—I was so certain this plan of mine would solve so many problems for us. At one blow. Well, opportunity once forsaken is opportunity lost forever, as the adage goes.” The Undersecretary looked mollified, and a bit guilty. “Of course this will place Competrin in a very serious situation.”

  “There’s a good deal of concern over that.”

  “I earnestly hope so. The rate of infiltration from the north is increasing alarmingly—have you talked to Brokaw?”

  The Undersecretary nodded. “There’s a good deal of discussion going on about that now. If the negotiations with Hoanh-Trac fail to accomplish the desired results, there is every indication we will increase our troop commitment in Khotiane.”

  “I see.”

  “We may in any event. But we certainly will if HoanhTrac proves difficult.”

  Something could be salvaged, then. Yes, there was always the chance: it only needed the timing, the wit to find and exploit the moment.

  He rose nimbly and threw open his hands. “Come and have lunch with us and we can go into things further.”

  The Undersecretary looked at his watch. “Oh, I can’t, Courtney. I’d like to. I’ve arranged to meet Damon at Pnom Du at four.”

  “Ah, but you must…” Massengale put his hand on the younger man’s arm. “I’ve laid on a delightful little lunch for you. Nothing elaborate, but I want to show off my chef—he’s first rate, really. It’ll be a lot more convenable than some catch-as-catch-can mouthful at the Splendide, or the Rigord. But nobody will be eating at the Rigord for quite a while, I suppose.” He paused. “Have you had the drippy tummy yet?”

  The Undersecretary, still thinking of the Rigord, shook his head somberly.

  “You don’t want to get it. Does he, Stuart?”

  “No, sir,” Graulet said with a grin, “he certainly doesn’t.”

  “Say you’ll join us,” Massengale went on, his hand under his guest’s arm, easing him toward the dining room. “You can leave whenever you like. It’s the least you can do after dashing all my hopes so cruelly…” Subtly he changed tone. “And you really ought to let me give you a quick briefing on the Night Clerk, since you’re going up into the wilds with him. We’re old comrades-in-arms, you know.”

  There: that had iced it. When all else failed, one had only to proffer power—or knowledge, which was power. The Undersecretary h
ad paused in surprise. “Oh, did he serve with you, Courtney?”

  “Oh my, yes. Indeed he did. Indeed he did.—Sit over there, won’t you? I want you to have the view of the Bay. I must apologize—my domestic ménage has been rather informal since my wife passed on.”

  He indicated places for the Undersecretary’s two assistants, nodded to Graulet and seated himself, and rang for Phat. Cau Luong was what he had sought and not found in the Islands. The Bay swept away in a pretty little circle of the purest white sand, and the trees were feathery and towering, the most plangent green against the blues of sea and sky; the fine resort buildings of the French occupation—the Cham Bau section of Cau Luong had been a playground for the Parisian planters and bankers—gleamed like alabaster in the still, flat air: festive, exotic, beguiling. Massengale’s suite was at the top of the old Dauphin—he was far too wise to use the Palace for anything but his working headquarters—and possessed a stout, imperturbable Khotianese chef who was a Cordon Bleu graduate and whose cuisine Massengale could not fault; a Borzoi named Alexander; and a Khotianese girl named Tuyet, who kept to her own quarters on occasions such as this. The apartment was completely air-conditioned: he’d had some of his choicer pieces of furniture and much of his library shipped out from the States. But it was the French heritage that delighted him about Cau Luong: a charming little Gallic island in the farouche Indochina sea. One evening, sitting before the great window, brandy glass in one hand, watching the fishing chulucs drifting toward the harbor like frail caravels discovering a continent, while the sky exploded in flamboyant streaks and whorls of vermilion and amethyst and ultramarine and the sea sank rapidly toward infinity, he was surprised to discover that he almost didn’t want to go home. Almost …

  “The thing you want to bear in mind with Samuel is that he’s a mustang,” he was saying, between spoonfuls of an excellent caviar madrilene. “He went in as a private, and he was a buck sergeant at the Marne. Old Caldwell, his father-in-law, got him a field commission. This set the pattern for the early part of his career, and dominated his attitudes: he’s always been an EM at heart. He was forever in and out of hot water between the wars—on the cliff-hanging edge of insubordination half a dozen times: highly unorthodox positions balanced by that astonishing combat record. Don’t misunderstand me—he was a splendid field commander. First rate. He served under me in the Visayas and on Luzon, and as Graulet can tell you, incompetent line officers in my command don’t last very long. But like most strictly combat types he lacks political savoir faire.”

  He took a sip of wine. “Alas, it’s not Bernkasteler Doktor, but it will have to suffice.”

  “It’s extraordinarily good,” the Undersecretary murmured.

  “It’s a pleasant little Moselle and that’s about all you can say.—That brings us to the second stage,” he went on, “and it’s the only part of Samuel’s life I can’t figure out precisely.” He paused and raised his spoon—something he never did. Graulet was watching him in astonishment and it amused him. “Something happened to Samuel on that China tour. I never found out what it was, and I should be surprised if anyone else did. It was nothing so trivial as a woman—Samuel never looked at another woman, not in those days—and it wasn’t simply that he contracted trachoma and some undiagnosable fever, and had a couple of bad brushes with Japanese patrols. But he came back another man—changed utterly.”

  “In what way?” the Undersecretary asked with interest.

  “It’s hard to put simply.” He was in his element now. Things could always be retrieved, where there was the requisite skill and imagination. He said: “He seemed to have—lost his sense of proportion. His awareness of how things work. The art of the possible, as the worn old phrase goes. I don’t know how to put it better. It just didn’t seem to have any meaning for him anymore. Oh, a smart psychoanalyst would call it anxiety neurosis or incipient paranoia or God knows what evacuation tag—and he’d be right, as far as he went. Though to tell the truth I don’t think it was anything more or less than an early onset of the male climacteric. This malady seems to hit army people earlier than their civilian counterparts. I’ve often wondered why that is—the isolation perhaps, or maybe the incessant drain on the adrenalin. I suppose there are physiological reasons galore. I’ve been brushed by it myself: a mountainous weariness laced with a trembling, almost tearful exasperation—then it passes nearly as quickly as a yawn. And usually the problem resolves itself fairly readily: you catch your wind, so to speak, and go on.”

  Phat had served with unobtrusive deftness the sole aux amandes. The Undersecretary—an inveterate gourmet, he knew—praised it without reservation; and pleased, he acknowledged it, and signaled to Phat to refill their wine glasses.

  “But with Samuel it effected a permanent change: he became irascible, choleric, rebellious without point. He got embroiled in two ungodly rows at Ord, then snatched at that regimental command under Westerfeldt. His coup at Moapora, as you probably know, was the result of direct disobedience of orders. He seemed to need to purge himself—his very soul, punish himself with a hundred and one acts of defiance. On Désespoir he got himself involved in a way I’m not going to tell you about; but suffice it to say it was very much part of the syndrome, and caused his superiors a lot of worry.

  “And then came Palamangao, and the invasion, and the pivoting movement, which I imagine you’ve heard something about. Samuel had, as I say, these fixations and furies. Well, to make a long and highly complicated story less so—there is nothing simple about battle, no matter what armchair genius may advance the thought—he failed to get away with the maneuver. The Japanese hit him in great strength, and naturally he started screaming for reinforcements. Fair enough. Only the unpleasant part of it was he claimed that they should have been his all along—that I, his commanding officer, had no right to use them on the other flank of the operation, and he had the effrontery to radio me—”

  It was astonishing: he had been running along at full speed, almost as though he couldn’t check himself if he’d wanted to … and now, unbelievably, he had stopped. Dead. He could not go forward. He could not think what came next.

  He blinked in surprise. The Undersecretary was still listening to him with that faintly scholarly, mournful air, his mustaches drooping; Graulet was staring at him in consternation. He felt tears come to his eyes. Ridiculous. It was ridiculous! He had the slow, drifting, naked dream sensation of an actor caught mindless and unsupported in the vast stage glare, before an astonished and accusatory audience. He coughed into his hand, squeezed his eyes shut. What in God’s name had happened? And still he could not remember what he had been going to say.

  “General,” Graulet was saying gently, “you mustn’t torture yourself over that grim time, it will only upset you …” His long, triangular face, his colorless eyes were suffused with just the proper concern and deference. “Don’t go over it again, General. Damon was simply succumbing to the pressure of the breached line when he sent those radios to SPANNER that afternoon. He was simply afraid he’d be overrun, and he panicked.”

  Good boy. He knew, then: he’d read it. Good boy. Massengale held his forefinger and thumb pressed to his eyes. Now he remembered, he had it all again. “Silly,” he murmured aloud. “The events we never really put behind us, the emotional undertow that’s always there, looping up around our ankles … Well, it turned out all right, of course,” he said with his old smile. “We won in a walk, as the saying goes; the battle and the campaign and the war, and went into proud Nippon. And then Samuel and I went our separate ways: MacArthur never thought very much of him. But of course I kept in touch. You meet people who served with old comrades, or you hear things at the club. You know how it goes. And now Samuel seemed to go into his third phase. It started—I guess it started—with a post-VJ Day speech to his hometown in Nebraska, which provoked a typically Damonesque flurry. What I call the Utopia complex: man is good, his instincts are noble, the world would fuse with the Elysian Fields if everybody would just step
forward and join hands. You’re familiar with this gestalt, I presume—even some of your eminent colleagues in State have not been completely immune …”

  The Undersecretary smiled his scarcely perceptible, mustache-obscured smile; his teeth leaped into view like a nervous rabbit’s.

  “But I trust you’ll take all that yowling and howling on the part of Beemis and Paul Bannerman with a good deal of salt,” he went on. “All that about Samuel’s being a Red, and so forth. Nothing could be further from the truth. Of course he’s always been a maverick, a wild man—eating out of iron pots with coolies, defending perennial stockade types, the downtrodden, crossing swords with his superiors. But he’s not a renegade. It’s a case of misplaced loyalties, excessive sentimentality, the echo of those early years.” He smiled fondly. “Samuel feels people are good because he wants them to be. A pleasant failing, but a la-mentable one. Like this Hoanh-Trac. Now you know and I know he’s a shrewd, tough, self-seeking old bandit who wants to advance his own personal position here in Cau Luong any way he can. I know for a fact that he has political ambitions—his nose was badly out of joint when Vu Khoi took over last summer …”

  For several minutes he elaborated on the nice intricacies involving the quasi-military coup that had ousted Prince Vouna Sai and his clique, while he watched his visitor with covert care. The food and drink—especially the drink—were having their effect. Kimh had topped off his meal with pêches flambées and Cognac. The Undersecretary sat just as erectly as before, but the candid gray eyes looked dense and vague; perspiration was beading the high, narrow forehead below the wisps of hair. How easy it was to play on the vanities of the Eastern Seaboard! For all the centuries of authority, of grace and bestowal, their slender blood nonetheless yearned for the reassurance that they were able, they were tough-fibered and forceful, capable of the pitiless decisions that engendered triumph. Realists, in short.