By then Tom had understood something of the army If he was commissioned in the Quartennaster Corps, after having graduated from cooks and bakers school, there was a very good chance he would be assigned as an assistant mess officer in some huge consolidated mess, as officer in charge of condiments. He proclaimed himself to be a member of the Hispanic minority group and applied for a commission in infantry, for parachute school, and for initial assignment to the Eighty-second Airborne Division. His requests were favorably acted upon.

The night before Second Lieutenant Thomas Ellis, Infantry, left the parachute school at Fort Benning, Georgia, for the Eighty-second Airborne Division at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, there was a game of chance in the BOQ. Normally, Tom Ellis was a lucky poker player, and far more skilled than his boyish face would suggest. But that night he had lost his ass: all of his money, his watch, his ring, and his MG coupe.

Once he got to Bragg, he would be all right. He would be reimbursed for his Travel by Private Automobile. That and charging his meals at the officers' club would see him through to payday. The problem was how to get from Benning to Bragg. There was only one way: by standing by the side of the highway and sticking up his thumb.

He was quickly picked up by a tanned man in a Cadillac, who told him he was going right through Fayetteville. It's a long drive from Benning to Bragg, and they talked. He told the guy in the Cadillac that he was just out of OCS and jump school and on his way to Bragg. The guy in the Cadillac told him he'd been in the Eighty-second during the war. Tom told him what had happened in the poker game, which explained why he was hitchhiking.

Just outside Fayetteville the guy in the Cadillac pulled into a truck stop and said he would spring for dinner. Then he went to the john, and when he came back he was wearing a uniform with the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel on the epaulets and a bunch of ribbons. It was the first time Tom had ever seen one of the ribbons, an inch and a half of blue with stars on it, but he knew what it was: the Medal of Honor.

Lieutenant Colonel Rudolph G. MacMillan pressed two hundred dollars upon Second Lieutenant Thomas Ellis and told him he wanted it back a hundred a month for the next two months. Colonel Mac said he was going to the Special Warfare School, where Ellis could find him on payday.

Lieutenant Ellis was assigned as a platoon leader in Dog Company, 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment, with additional duty as mess officer, VD control officer, reenlistment officer, and minority affairs officer. He heard what the Special Warfare School was. It was where they trained the snake eaters. The snake eaters ran around in the jungle, eating snakes, sticking knives in people, and blowing things up. Snake eaters wore green berets, and for that reason were called Green Berets.

There was supposed to be very little chickenshit among the Green Berets, mainly because most of the enlisted men were sergeants, and because of their colonel, an Irishman named Hanrahan. It was also supposed to be very good duty for a junior officer, the catch being that you had to be one hell of an unusual junior officer to get into Special Forces. They did not want second johns right from jump school, but senior lieutenants and captains who had done their troop duty and been overseas, preferably during a war.

Lieutenant Ellis, who did not like being mess officer, VD control officer, reenlistment officer, and minority affairs officer in addition to his basic duty as platoon commander, decided that all Colonel Mac could tell him was no. It wouldn't do any harm to ask, and just as soon as he had Colonel Mac's two hundred bucks, he would go over there to give it to him and see if he could bring up the subject of his becoming a snake eater.

That fell in his lap. The first thing that happened was that when he was hoping to draw a seven to go with his three kings and a seven, he drew another king. The fourth king was worth Colonel Mac's two hundred, a wristwatch, and a substantial down payment on a red Ford convertible.

The second thing that happened was that when he drove the red rag-top Ford over to Smoke Bomb Hill and the Special Warfare Center, he found that Colonel Mac had a small problem on his hands.

As Tom handed him the two hundred, the first question Colonel Mac asked was "You sure you can afford this?"

"Yes, sir."

The second question was "What have they got you doing over there? VD control officer?"

"Yes, sir, and some other things too."

The third question was "You know some spics over there who're looking for a new job?"

"I don't quite understand the question, sir," Ellis said.

"You know what a spic is, don't you, Ellis? Pepper eaters? I've got to find a bunch of them. They have to be jumpers, and they have to speak spic."

Lieutenant Ellis's next reply was in Spanish.

"Where'd you learn to talk spic?" Colonel Mac had asked in surprise.

"Most of us spics speak spic, my colonel," Ellis said. "I was raised in Spanish Harlem. My mother's maiden name was Juanita de Tomes."

"Jesus!" Colonel Mac said. "You sure don't look it. No offense, Ellis."

"None taken, sir."

"You want to come over here?"

"SI, my colonel."

"Let's go see the colonel," Colonel Mac said.

The commandant of the Special Warfare Center and School, Colonel Paul T. Hanrahan, had not taken Ellis's word that he spoke Spanish. He had called in a sergeant and told him to find out how well the lieutenant spoke Spanish.

Three minutes later the sergeant reported that Ellis spoke a strange kind of Spanish, almost Castilian, although he was just as fluent in the Puerto Rican dialect.

"We had Spanish nuns in school," Ellis explained.

He had thought that he had a fair chance to be transferred to Special Forces. There was a chance, a good chance, that his company commander would not want to let him go. If his company commander didn't want to let him go, the regimental commander would go along with him. But maybe, Tom had thought, he could plead his case, maybe pull that member-of Hispanic-minority bullshit and get them to let him go.

He was wrong about that. While he was still in Colonel Hanrahan's office, the colonel had picked up the phone and called the Eighty-second Airborne Division G- 1 (Personnel Officer) and told him to cut orders transferring Second Lieutenant Tom Ellis from the 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment to the Special Warfare Center. Tom moved in a Special Warfare Center BOQ that same afternoon.

Special Warfare had a "personnel priority." Hanrahan had been directed to recruit Spanish-speaking recruits from wherever he could find them. The Deputy Chief of Staff, Personnel, had been privy to President Eisenhower's decision to have the CIA send a force of exiled Cubans back to Cuba to take it back from Castro. Special Forces was to "cooperate" with the CIA in training and equipping the exiled Cubans. When DCSPERS directed Hanrahan to recruit Spanish speaking personnel, he at the same time issued a directive stating that personnel selected by Special Warfare, and who wished to volunteer for Special Forces duty, would immediately be made available for transfer, regardless of any other consideration.

Lieutenant Tom Ellis had not known of the "personnel priority" or of the reasons for it. They hadn't told him they wanted him to take an "A" Team into Cuba by parachute to set up a radio direction finder until he was just about finished with his Special Forces training, two weeks before he was to jump into the hills above the Bahai de Cochinos.

Tom's mother came into the corridor, yelped, and ran to him. While she hugged him, she asked why he hadn't let her know he was coming.

"I didn't know I could get away," Tom said.

He set the canvas bag on the kitchen table, unzipped it, and gave her her Christmas present. It was French perfume from the PX. He knew how much his mother liked perfume.

"I sent your presents off to the army," she said. "It's all right."

Tom took a second package from the canvas bag and handed it to Philip. "What's this?" Philip asked. The package was heavier than it looked, and Philip almost dropped it.

"Merry Christmas," Tom said.

"I didn't get you anything," Philip said. "It's all right."

Philip weighed the heavy package in his hands. Curiosity got the better of him, and he set it down and tore the Christmas wrapping from it. "What's this?" "You're always complaining that they make you buy your own ammo to qualify," Tom said. "So I got you some."

The package contained eight boxes of what the army called "Cartridges, pistol,.38 Special, ball, 50 rounds per box."

Philip looked at him. "They're not hot, Philip," Tom said, knowing what he was thinking.

"Where'd you get them?" Philip asked.

"In the PX," Tom said.

"They just sell these to anybody?" Philip asked. "No wonder every punk on Manhattan Island's got a gun."

"I'm an officer, Philip," Tom said.

He had, in fact, not bought the cartridges in the PX. He had gotten them from the armorer. He had gone there to get the general a couple of boxes of.45s. General Hanrahan liked to shoot the.45 pistol. He had one that was all tuned up, with adjustable sights. Tom had learned from him that cutting a playing card in half with a pistol bullet at twenty-five feet wasn't really so awesome if you considered that the.45 bullet was nearly a half an inch in diameter, which meant that if you came within an inch of the card, you hit it.

He had seen the.38s on the steel shelves in the armory, and thought of Philip bitching about having to buy his own ammo every six months to qualify with his service revolver. He thought that if he had to do what Philip did to make a living, he would be out on the range, practicing every spare moment, not bitching about having to qualify every six months and pay for his own ammo.

"What's with the.38s?" Tom had asked the warrant officer armorer.

"You want some? Help yourself, Lieutenant."

"Are they on the books?"

"Same as the.45s," the warrant had told him. "Available for informal practice." I got a ton of it. Nobody wants to shoot a.38."

"My stepfather's a cop in New York," Tom said. "They make them buy their own for practice and qualification."

"Lieutenant, if you wanted some of that.38, I don't think anybody would say a thing if you took it home to practice with your stepfather."

"Give me a couple of boxes, then."

"Couple, shit. You can't do any practicing with a lousy couple of boxes."

He had handed Tom as much as he would pick up with two hands eight boxes.

Philip had one of the boxes open and was looking at one of the cartridges.

"I can't use this; it's armor-piercing," he said, holding up the cartridge, indicating the bullet, which was metal-plated. Philip seemed pleased, Tom thought, that he had found an excuse to refuse the gift.

"That's not armor-piercing," Tom said. "That's what they call gilding metal." Like the.45."

"You're an expert on ammunition now, Lieutenant?"

"I know the difference between armor-piercing and ball," Tom said.

"And I know armor-piercing when I see it," Philip said.

"Okay, so it's armor-piercing. Go shoot up a tank with it." He wasn't inside the door ten minutes, and they were at it already.

"I'm glad you're here," his mother said, obviously hoping to end the argument before it got out of hand. "Philip is going to 116th Street to see his children, so we can have a nice talk."

His stepfather wasn't determined to have a fight tonight. Sometimes he was.

"I was about to leave when you came," Philip said. "I got to see my kids, take them their presents, you understand?"

"Sure," Tom said.

He told himself there were a number of reasons why Philip didn't like him. For one thing, Tom was white. For another, Philip must know that he didn't make nearly as much money as a lieutenant on jump pay in the army did.

Screw it. What difference did it make?

Tom had an amusing thought. Philip really believed the.38 was armor-piercing. He was not going to take Tom's word that it was not. What he would more than likely do was big-deal it with the other cops, tell them he'd come into some army armor-piercing ammunition, and pass it out six rounds at a time. All over the subway system of the City of New York there would be cops carrying pistols loaded with what they thought was armor-piercing ammunition.

He had to get out of here, Tom realized. He had to come because it was Christmas and it was his mother. And he had to get out of here because she was his mother.

After Philip left, his mother told him about work. She worked downtown, off Third Avenue, in a loft where they sewed dresses. She had started years ago with the same firm, and she was now sort of a supervisor. What that meant was that she spoke both Spanish and English: The seamstresses were newcomers from Puerto Rioo who spoke only Spanish, and Mr. Feldstein and the cutters and fitters didn't speak Spanish. So she told the Puerto Rican women what was expected of them.

Tom listened politely, not because he gave a damn about Field Fashions, but because if his mother wasn't talking about work, she would have nothing to talk about. She liked her job, which was a good thing, since sixty percent of Philip's pay went for child support, and they needed the money. She was happy married to Phillip, and he was glad about that too.

But even if she was his mother, he didn't belong here. And just as obviously he didn't belong in Swarthmore either. The only place left was the army. He belonged to the army.

When Philip came back, just before one (he had more than likely taken his kids to midnight mass), Tom left. Philip called a cab for him so that he wouldn't have to walk the streets, hying to catch one. Philip told the cab company he was Officer Francissa. Otherwise the dispatcher wouldn't have sent a cab to that address. When the cab came, Tom asked him how much he would charge to take him to the other side of the George Washington Bridge, so that he wouldn't have to go through the bus terminal.

Cabdrivers had the right to refuse out-of-the-city fares, and even after Tom showed him his AGO card, this one refused to take him to the car park in Jersey.

He rode the bus back across the Hudson, brushed the snow off the Jaguar's windshield, and got the engine going. He would stop at the first motel he came to. Then, in the morning, he'd drive straight through to Bragg.

He had had some half-baked notion of maybe dropping in on Dianne again on the way home. He knew now that he couldn't do that. For Christ's sake, the thing with Dianne had been about as smart as his enlisting for cooks and bakers school. He would not, he knew, go to see her again when the holidays were over and she was back at Duke.

He knew what he would do. They were about to send some Berets to Vietnam, wherever the hell that was. He would tell the general he didn't like being a dog robber. He wanted a team to take to Vietnam..

(Four) Building To 2007 The Infantry Center and School Fort Beaning, Georgia 1930 Hours, 24 December 1961 There had been hardly anybody at supper in Consolidated Mess Number 6, which served the Parachute School; but aside from having fewer mess trays, tableware, and coffee cups to wash, there was little difference in what was expected of the KPs from a day when the whole place was full of paratrooper sing-training.

The red tile floor of the kitchen, the stoves, and the work tables had to be scrubbed. And the floor of the mess hall itself, and the tables, and the coffee urns, and the steam table.

It was nearly seven before Private Geoffrey Craig, shivering in water and grease-soaked fatigues, got back to his barracks after fourteen and one half days of KP. He found a newspaper in a garbage can and balled it up, then stuffed it into his soaked combat boots so they would dry overnight. Then he stripped off his fatigues and shoved them under his bed, found clean underwear and his shower clogs, and went to the shower room for a long and hot shower.

There was a feeling, not exhilarating but satisfying, that coming off KP was sort of significant. He would not have to pull KP again at the Parachute School. He was two-thirds through the three week course. Which meant that the worst of that was over too.

The first week had been primarily muscle building and brainwashing. The muscle building hadn't bothered him much, except for push-ups, which had hurt his hand. The sit-ups hadn't bothered him at all, although some of the other trainees had thrown up from the strain on their muscles and stomachs. The duck walk had been a strain, but he had been able to handle it.

The brainwashing, the chickenshit, Karl-Heinz Wagner had told him with professional assurance, had a valid purpose. Presuming everyone did exactly what they were told, and did it instantly, there was really very little danger in parachute training. They had been teaching people to jump out of airplanes for twenty years, and by now they knew how to do it well and safely.

But things happened accidents, mistakes, broken equipment. When that happened, the instructors knew how to handle it, presuming the trainee did exactly as he was told. According to Karl-Heinz Wagner, the chickenshit, the "Give me fifty" (push-ups) for the slightest violation of petty rules and regulations was designed so that the trainees would instantly and without question obey any order they were given.

The instructors, the "cadre," were without exception young men in splendid physical condition who performed their duties with enthusiasm. They dressed in rigidly starched fatigue uniforms and wore calf-high lace-up boots, jump boots, polished to an unbelievable shine. When the cadre was functioning at a high level of sadism, Geoff sometimes thought that he would like nothing more in the world than to immerse them all in a giant vat of used engine oil.

As far as the parachute school was concerned, there were two classes of people: trainees and cadre. The cadre was just as willing to scream at an officer trainee as they were at a private, although they seemed to treat the two field-grade officers in Geoff's training company with a modicum of respect: "I would be grateful, sir, if the major would get down and give me twenty-five, sir."

Before they had left Bragg for Benning, they had had a pep talk from the first sergeant.

"What we want you people to do at Benning is what they tell you to do, and with your mouths shut. Put up with whatever they throw at you. You'll only be there three weeks, and you have to get through jump school before you can start your training here. If they give you your weekends off, behave. Stay the hell away from Phoenix City, which is right across the river from Benning in Bragg. Falling out of an airplane, tied to a static line, which automatically opens your chute, does not pose any intellectual problem to anybody. When you get back here, we will teach you what parachute jumping is all about."

It had been a long trip from Bragg to Benning in the Volkswagen. Ursula had ridden in the back with their tin suitcases, while he and Karl-Heinz had shared the driving. Ursula apparently did not know how to drive, which dashed Geoff's hope that at some time during the trip he would be alone with her on the front seat.

Karl-Heinz insisted on buying the gasoline and the food. The food was sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs and milk packed by Ursula in a grocery bag. They would not accept his offer to spring for dinner. They could not afford to reciprocate.

Somewhat reluctantly, once they had gotten to Benning, Karl-Heinz borrowed the Volkswagen and drove it into Columbus, Georgia, to find a place for Ursula to stay. The sergeant who had told Geoff about TPA had told Karl-Heinz that the NCO club at Beaning was always looking for waitresses, and if his sister needed a job, she should go see a Sergeant Whitman.

That had come to pass too. Every afternoon, after she had washed and starched Karl-Heinz's fatigues to a stiffness equal to the rigidness of the cadre's fatigues, Ursula took a bus from the furnished room and a half in Columbus out to the NCO club on the post and worked from 1600 to 2230 as a waitress in the dining room. She was paid $1.25 an hour, plus tips. Karl-Heinz didn't like the idea of her being alone at nearly midnight, so, insisting that he pay for the gas, he allowed Geoff to drive them to the NCO club and wait for her to come out.

She always looked tired, Geoff thought. Goddamned pretty, even in that stupid uniform, but tired. And even more beautiful when she smiled and showed off how much she had earned in tips on a good night.

Sometimes Karl-Heinz would get in the back, which meant Geoff would be alone with her in the front seat and could steal a look at her every once in a while. Sometimes she caught him looking at her, and then she flushed and modestly looked away.

Geoff cordially hated the Volkswagen, its sole redeeming feature being that it was so small that sometimes, when Ursula was in the front seat with him, her leg would accidentally brush against his. Otherwise it burned a lot of oil, and other things went wrong. Karl-Heinz was apparently an expert on Volkswagens another one of his surprises.

There were Volkswagens in East Germany, imported from the capitalistic west for the use of senior East German officials. Karl-Heinz's commanding officer had owned one, and he and Karl-Heinz had rebuilt the motor when it began to burn oil. Geoff, he said, was going to have to think about doing a ring and-valve job on the Volkswagen before the problem developed into something ne now It had taken the seed of what Karl-Heinz had said some time to bear fruit, but then it had all seemed clear. Karl-Heinz could fix engines. People who fixed engines were paid to do so. Karl Heinz needed money. Ergo, Karl-Heinz should fix whatever he said was wrong with the engine and get money for doing so.