Once an Eagle

  In a year it was gone. All gone. He was only nine but he remembered the hushed, feverish consultations, the cries of consternation, the huddled conferences and hasty departures. And then his mother had come to him, her face distraught and dark with fatigue. “Courtney. A dreadful thing has happened, Courtney. You must listen carefully to Mother.” It had something to do with investments, with things that had defaulted, papers that had once been valuable but were valuable no longer. (Later he understood it all too clearly.) It was very serious. That winter Grandpa Massengale died: he remembered moving up to the long, dark coffin—and then the shock of his grandfather’s face, looking little and pinched and mean; not his grandfather at all. He had burst into tears and his mother had taken him outside, into the white, stinging cold.

  They were poor. Well, they were not exactly poor, like the Briards or the Lauchmans in that dilapidated farm on the edge of the river; but their lives were different. They still lived in the old house—the parlor and several of the upstairs rooms were closed now, permanently—but all the land down to the river was not theirs anymore; there were no more lawn parties, or trips to Newport or Boston. They were “in straitened circumstances,” his mother said. As the years went by he was to find out it was worse than that: to be without means among the wealthy is a very special kind of poverty.

  Aunt Harriet, his mother’s sister, had come to live with them. In the winter nights, up in his father’s study with a blanket around his knees doing his algebra or history, he would watch the snow flung like rice against the window and listen to the murmur of their voices by the fireplace in the kitchen. They were planning for him; he knew it. Now and then, overcome by curiosity, he had crept partway down the stairs and heard snatches. He was to go to West Point: Uncle Schuyler had the connections to get him the appointment, the education itself would cost nothing; then he would choose the Corps of Engineers and go forth to do great deeds in the service of his country, like that wonderful Colonel Goethals down in Panama.

  “It’s on your shoulders, Courtney,” Aunt Harriet would say; she was smaller than his mother, pale and rather homely, with buck teeth and a prominent nose. “You’re all we have in the world—if you don’t succeed God knows what we’ll do! …”

  “Now, Hatty,” his mother would answer, but it was not reproof; her gaze was full of supplication. It was all on his shoulders now—everything: he knew. Huddled in bed, the old timbers snapping in the dense cold, remembering their smothering embraces, the portrait in the front parlor, he would clench his fists in nameless anger and resolve to do better, still better. He must …

  The Point had been a shock. He had been prepared for the drill, the long hours of study, the severity of classroom regimen; he had not been prepared for the casual, calculated humiliation, the nocturnal barbarities. But he was strong, he was disciplined, he had learned early to conceal his emotions and mask his real thoughts. He endured it; there was nothing else to do. At night, dizzy with sleeplessness, his arms and legs twitching uncontrollably from the hazing exercises, raging silently at the lunatic prattle of responses he’d been forced to commit to memory and prattle on demand, about the number of lights in Cullum Hall or the number of gallons of water in Lusk Reservoir, all of them swathed in their preposterous, florid verbiage—lying there biting on his blanket to keep from moaning with fury and despair, he would think of those two women in the long, dimly lit kitchen by the fire, and hate them with all his might. They had got him into this! They knew, and they had done it. It was unspeakable … With time he realized they did not know: how could they? He would never tell them—and who else would have? But his heart hardened like green wood in fire.

  He had survived, however. It was a triumph of will. In a paroxysm of inverted pride and self-denial he had suppressed every heretical thought, every tendency toward rebellion or dejection or idle dreaming. A poor boy caught in the world of the rich, this was the only way to success. He was going to succeed, no matter what it cost: no matter what. He went out for track because being a letterman was good politics—and then discovered he liked it. He ran with a vengeance; he liked the throat-searing, head-quaking exhaustion of the quarter-mile, the cruel punishment of the race, the preposterous fact that it was a sprint—a sprint that lasted one whole incredible circuit of the track. In his senior year he was unbeaten.

  And he studied, he drove himself. It was the best way to banish the ache of loneliness, the bovine, extrovert simplicity of his classmates, most of whom bored him to tears. He read voraciously; he had a quick mind, a retentive memory, and an iron will. And he had charm; he could make himself liked when he chose. What he did not feel he could simulate admirably. Very few people were ever aware of the difference. He graduated Cadet Captain and second in scholarship. There had been a short tour of duty at Fort Eustis, and then the war had come …

  Damon had just moved, and he leaned forward again, concentrating on the game. There was still that damned knight’s pawn. Like a rock. He could not dislodge it. He feigned an attack on the queen’s wing, he assaulted with twinned rooks in the center, but Damon parried each stratagem, each shift in pressure—it was almost as though the Captain were anticipating his moves. He became irritated, half-angry—it was uncanny!

  In the living room Tommy laughed once—a short, two-note laugh, and the women’s voices ran along again in an inaudible murmur. He shrugged, and looked at his watch. This was silly: it was late. Besides, he had other plans for the evening.

  Abruptly he said: ‘‘Samuel, I’ve had enough. Let’s call it a draw: that all right with you?”

  “Sure.” Damon smiled. “I’ll gladly settle for a draw.”

  “Good.” He poured another finger of liqueur into their glasses, and for a few moments they talked about the assassination of Viscount Saito during the recent army revolt in Tokyo, and the Seven Demands presented to Nanking by Japan.

  “What do you think about that, Samuel?”

  “I think Chiang Kai-shek is making a great mistake. The Ho-Umezu Agreement was bad enough. It’s a dangerous policy to call in foreigners to help solve your domestic troubles; the Japanese won’t stop with that.”

  “Probably not. You know what MacArthur said when Quezon asked him if he thought the Islands could be defended? ‘I don’t think so, I know they can.’ He’s just what we need out here.” He stretched his legs and threw an arm over his eyes. “It’s curious, isn’t it? This whole idea of the man of the hour, the hero coming forth in a moment of stress—the Greek myth, the Barbarossa legend, Carlyle’s theory of the hero born out of the needs of the situation. It’s been carried too far, of course, but the fact is that the ‘great’ man, the individual of superior intellect and will, does come forward more often than not. Chaos is the condition of man—chaos and uncertainty. The person who can act with force and decision at such a moment, turns the consciousness of his time. What is the epic but poetic celebration of this assertion? Whether it’s Jason or Achilles or Napoleon … ”

  “But aren’t we more or less persuaded that their great arrogance rendered them vulnerable, brought them to grief?”

  Massengale took his arm away from his eyes; this was why conversations with Damon were so much fun. “Ah, but that’s the limitation of art. The search for form. Art is only a facet of life, a tightly ordered facet, and therefore it’s inferior to it. Life—flesh-and-blood actuality—is the material realization. Look at Alexander, Frederick, Caesar: they seized the chaotic elements around them and forged them into instruments of their will—melted them all down and recast them in new and exciting forms …”

  “Alexander died of fever, wounds and drunken excesses at thirty-two,” the Captain answered slowly. “And his empire fell apart in months.”

  “A matter of luck. Frederick died full of honors. And Bonaparte had his ten fabulous years as Emperor of the French. It’s not a question of duration, necessarily. The point is they changed the essential chemistry of the world …”

  He sat watching Damon, who was silent. The
excitement of the moment had him now, fully—that tingling sensation, half-exultation, half-defiance, that nothing else could ever match. The immanent force of it! The long regality of will … He remembered an afternoon when he was twelve, when a group of them were camping in the woods. He had told Henry Schneider, a neighbor and the son of the local butcher, to take the potatoes out of the fire. The boy had refused, and when he’d pressed him had called him a coward. He could still summon up that moment with hot clarity—the little circle of faces, eager and pitiless, the thick hiss of the embers, Henry Schneider’s round face red with anger. He knew he could not fight him: he would be beaten and humiliated. Slowly, very slowly, with all of them watching, he had put his arm into the fire, felt the incredible icy searing thrill race over his flesh. He had not cried out, he had not even gasped, though the pain had blurred his vision; their faces had all gone tight with fear. Someone had uttered a short, muffled exclamation. He had even managed a tight, crooked smile, though his eyes were stinging, and repeated the order … He had cried that night in bed (he’d told his mother he had slipped and fallen in the fire); but no one had heard him. After that his authority was unquestioned: they did what he wanted or kept out of his company. None of them wanted to fight him. They were afraid …

  “Samuel,” he said suddenly, “what would be your reaction if I were to tell you you’re wasting your time?”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “In all kinds of ways.” He swung around so he faced the Captain directly. “Look, Gleason’s going to be transferred soon. For reasons you may or may not know about. How’d you like to come over to MacArthur’s staff?”

  The Captain grinned. “I doubt very much if I’m wanted on anybody’s staff right about now.”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve talked to the General about you. If you were interested, I think I could arrange it. Of course I don’t have to tell you there must be no more affaires Brand …”

  Damon nodded and pursed his lips. “Well, it’s—I certainly appreciate it, Major … It’s only that I’d have to say I feel my place is with troops.”

  “Nonsense. Your place is where you’re most valuable, where your talents are recognized. You worry too much about your command, Samuel. It’s all noble enough, but there’s no purpose to it. Most men have simple appetities, limited horizons. They develop a craving for drink, like McClain, or they lose their heads over women, like Brand there, or they want to smash things, or they simply waste their substance in vague and incurable daydreaming. After all, what distinguishes the leader—the hero, if you like—from the common run? He needs food, he grows weary, he has to empty his bowels as faithfully—and as ignominiously—as the meanest clod. What raises him above the ruck is intellect, training, flexibility of view—but above all an unswerving will, the unshakable desire to forge that will on events, his fellowmen. And most men simply aren’t capable of it.”

  “A very good commander said, ‘Each of you is a leader’” the Nebraskan answered softly, almost as though it were an appeal.

  “Oh, sure—an admirable way of handling troops in a desperate situation. Trapped in hostile country, fighting rear-guard actions, fear of mutiny, all the rest of it. A little masterpiece of morale building. But do you think for a minute he really meant it?” Damon nodded. “But Samuel, be reasonable—the average soldier can’t begin to comprehend the simplest command problems.”

  “No, he can’t. Because he hasn’t been given the opportunity.”

  Massengale tapped his front teeth with his thumbnail. “Lord, oh lord: when are we going to cure you of that roaring mustang background of yours?” Damon was smiling, but he knew the Captain was angry, and it pleased him obscurely. It was the right move; it was, in a nutshell, the measure of his superiority over the Nebraskan. And yet there was this other thing—this slow, stubborn assertion of something—what was it?—that he could not touch, could not mold: it was irritating.

  “You’re an anomaly, Samuel,” he said after a little pause. “You’re a wild anachronism—you’ve completely failed to identify yourself with the interests of your class.”

  “My class?”

  “Yes—you’re a Regular Army officer, you’re not a thirty-year NCO mothering your brood, kissing some and kicking others. You were one once, briefly. But you’re not now. Look, it’s all right to be a maverick if you want to be, a bit of an eccentric—maybe all great leaders have had a little of that, from Joshua on down. But you shouldn’t be known for one. That’s just sentimental—and destructive. This business with Brand—what has it got you but trouble? All that dissipation of your energies—he’s just one man, and a private at that …”

  “That’s right, Major.” And Damon’s face while he watched it grew solemn and very hard—for the thinnest fraction of time Massengale felt a stark thrill of fright, such as when a gecko fell from the ceiling at night and landed on his bare skin. “He’s just one man.”

  “But your job is to deal with man in the mass—it’s on how you cope with that problem that your ultimate success as a commander will rest.” Damon was silent again, but he knew the Captain had something to say. He ran on, “Look at yourself honestly: no frills, no evasions, no sentimentalities. You have ambition, drive, a thirst for knowledge—which is power—a need to enforce the momentum of your will on the inertia of circumstances. Yet you are completely out of rhythm with your age; you are failing to move with it.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, frankly.” He leaned forward a little. “What’s happening is that we’re moving into an era of centralization, of authoritarian control. It’s part of the long oscillation of history: authority to anarchy and back again. In the late Renaissance every individual sought to act, fulfill his own destiny, express his individuality, his unalterable will—in art, violence, moneymaking, religious defiance, what you will. That was the apogee of anarchistic tendency for the millennium; now the pendulum is swinging back the other way. Read Spengler, read Ortega—you’re a reflective man. Look at Italy, Germany, Russia. People seek authority, they need it: they want to be told what to do, how to act: it’s become instinctual. And in an authoritarian era the army is always the sharpest instrument of policy.”

  He sat back and waited for some marked response—an ejaculation, an argument, even a grunt. But Damon made no reply; he sat immobile in the split-bamboo chair, with that curiously attractive grace of the good athlete in repose. He looked dulled, half-asleep—but Massengale knew if a grenade were to come crashing through the screen beside them the Captain would be on his feet in a flash, doing something: the right thing, too. For a moment the thought filled him with a consternation that was almost despair; then it passed. Every man had his price, his weaknesses, his temptations; every man sought the approval of someone living or dead, worshiped at some fleshed-out image of his heart’s own fancy … And what a team they would make! This was the vision he had often teased himself with, over the past year: he, Massengale, as the master strategist, the planner, the diplomat, threading his way through the labyrinths of interdepartmental intrigue and high policy (aided and abetted by Uncle Schuyler, who was now, Quetzalcoatl be praised, a senior member of the all-powerful House Armed Services Committee), while Damon devoted his energies to field command. An unbeatable combination. But it had to be understood that he was to lead, determine their courses of action; and Samuel must give unmistakable evidence of his own intentions, his own allegiance. There was the rub …

  “I’m going to say something you’ll call highly heretical,” he offered aloud; he touched the tips of his fingers below his chin. “Do you know something? The problem of morale is so much drivel. Oh, you can find isolate instances such as your Xenophon. But I mean really: in an ultimate sense.” Damon smiled slowly and it irritated him. “What’s funny about that?”

  “I was just remembering the first time we met, Major. In the courtyard near St. Durance. You felt some of the boys were pretty disrespectful—they were trying to get their canteens filled, remember?—and you
quoted me that old adage of Napoleon’s about morale being to all other factors as four is to one.”

  That memory of Damon’s: that incredible memory! Had he said that? Yes, he probably had. He didn’t remember the incident; what he did remember was the solid, blocklike indomitability of the figure in front of him, the weary, hard defiance; and then he had taken out his notebook and pencil and—

  “Did I?” he queried lightly. “Yes, I probably did … Sure, we must all of us pay lip service to it—even the Little Corporal. It has its value in effecting given ends, filtered down through the ranks. But you know as well as I do that it’s command that makes the difference. All the fire-eating esprit in the world is useless without a commander’s craft and inventiveness. Look at military history: the invincible Macedonian phalanx sends out its massive hammerblow at Pydna, and the three Roman lines bend and bend and bend with the impact, and contain it like a web, and chew it up. Did the Romans have a higher morale? I doubt it. Pakenham’s valorous grenadiers march resolutely into the withering fire from behind the cotton bales at New Orleans, the knights at Crécy ride into that gray storm of cloth-yard arrows, and are no more. It’s been the same in every age. The irrefutable triumph of strategy, of command disciplines! Look at Hannibal’s brilliant victories—he won them with mercenaries: Goths, Asturians, Nubians—elephants, for God’s sake. After Cannae every single family in Rome went into mourning. Every single family! Did you know that?”