(Seven)
09 January 2065
Center House
Washington DC, USA
2100
Offering toasts after dinner is an extraordinarily formal part of Mess Night. Certain toasts are expected in a rigid order. Toasts of protocol are followed by official toasts, which are followed by the traditional toast; finally personal toasts are offered. It is the way things are done. Tradition is followed, and national anthems are played. It can seem to go on for quite some time.
This evening the Commandant was seated at the head of the long table, acting as the president of the mess. General Green was seated at the opposite end of the table, which was decked in fine linen, crystal and all the regimental silver. Marines had learned centuries earlier to embrace creature comforts whenever they presented themselves - the Corps would give them more than enough opportunities to be miserable. General Green was acting as the vice-president of the mess and the host. The evening had been her idea, and she was nominally in charge of the events. All toasts began with an address to her.
The Commandant stood and offered a toast to the president of Finland and - by extension - to the Ambassador. The entire party stood, and the chamber orchestra played "Finlandia." After three or four minutes the Ambassador offered a toast to the President of the United States. Again everyone stood for the playing of the "Star-Spangled Banner." There were no official toasts to offer - no members of the government or another branch of the service had been invited. This was a private night. The Commandant, in his role as mess president, offered the traditional toast:
"General Green, to Corps and Country."
General Green stood, and in a clear, well-trained voice gave the traditional response - the words having been read from a poster dating from the Revolutionary War.
"Long live the United States, and success to the Marines!"
After a few minutes of conversation the Commandant again stood and then offered a toast to Lieutenant Paul Wang, recipient of the Medal of Honor. Someone to whom Kylen had not yet been introduced offered a toast to General Wierick and the victory of Ixion. General Wierick offered a toast to Colonel McQueen. General Oliver Radford offered a toast to the Tellus and Vesta Colonists. The pauses that had come between all the toasts began to stretch out, and everyone expected the coffee to be served momentarily. But Kylen, rather timidly, touched the Commandant's arm, and whispered something to him. He nodded his acquiescence, and Kylen stood.
"General Green," she said, having picked up the proper form. "Honored guests, ladies and gentlemen, I offer a toast on behalf of the survivors of the colonial missions. I wish to give you the Fifty-eighth Squadron, the Wildcards, and also the Fifty-ninth, the Ready Reserve, who cleared the path home for us. I now understand that any and all Marines would have given their best to save us. In this case, however, it wasn't just any Marine: It was the men and women of these two squadrons." She raised her glass. "To the Fifty-eighth and the Fifty-ninth."
The company raised their glasses. Radford's little find had surprised most of them.
When everyone had put down their glasses, McQueen further surprised the group by standing, glass in hand. With a voice rich in dignity, he addressed the assembly.
"General Green, honored guests, ladies and gentlemen. We have recalled the glory and sacrifice of Ixion. I ask you now to stand with me in a moment of silence. Let us remember the victory and the sacrifice of Demios."
There was a good five seconds of silence before anyone stood. Kylen was aware that McQueen had just done something that shocked almost everyone assembled, but she had no idea what it was. She noted that people stood carefully so their chairs would not make noise. After they were all standing, McQueen waited a full thirty seconds in silence before solemnly intoning: "Our honored dead."
"Our honored dead," the crowd responded. After a couple of seconds McQueen sat and everyone else, one by one, followed his lead. Few people could believe that he had done it. Not that the toast wasn't the right thing to do: It was just that no one could quite believe that he had actually offered such a toast in front of Wierick.
Demios had almost been a disaster - another Guadalcanal. Intelligence had been faulty and people had screwed up. The fleet had been caught with its pants down and had been forced to withdraw. Troops had been left on the planet with no reinforcements, aircover, or backup. The withdrawal had been to Ixion - true - a spectacular surprise to the enemy and a fantastic victory. But the loss of life at Demios had been staggering. The victory there had not been achieved by brilliance of tactics or of leadership. It had been achieved by a handful of soldiers and Marines with a dogged unwillingness to die. Most people preferred to forget that the esteemed architect of Ixion, General Wierick, was also the architect of Demios, which, but for those few men and women on planet, could well have been a defeat beyond the definition of humiliation.
About half of the table was thinking that this Colonel, who was unknown to them, had really stuck his foot in it. The thought struck about half of that half, with a tinge of regret, that the man had just shot his promising career in the foot. About a third of the rest were smirking to themselves - the tank would go no farther in the Corps, having just buried himself up to his nippled neck in Chig guano. What only about a half-dozen people knew was that McQueen had been at Wierick's side for both battles. What even fewer people knew was that there had only been seven men in the room when the decision had been made to pull out of Demios and move on Ixion, and that McQueen had been one of those seven men. What even those people did not know was that only two people had agreed with Wierick and that one of those two had been the man who had just offered the toast, McQueen. And what only two men seated at the table knew was what the decision had cost them both personally: Only Wierick and McQueen knew how bitterly the decision had been accepted. Only they knew how often they had seen one another prowling the passageways of the Saratoga, each lost in his own thoughts. Things had passed between them that even Commodore Ross knew nothing about. Only they remembered sitting together in silence on the observation deck, watching the stars shoot by as the fleet made its way back to Demios. It was a bond that the two men shared. The crushing weight of command had been felt even more keenly by Wierick. It had been a suffocating - if clear - decision. A decision that could have been soul destroying. It was a bond that they shared. Both men knew that if they had it all to do over, they would do it again.
Most people mistakenly thought of Wierick as a hard-charging, devil-take-the-hindmost, Patton type. Most people did not realize that he was cut from the more personally involved and devoted Schwarzkopf mold. Far from being insulted, General Wierick was grateful to McQueen. The Colonel had said things to which the General could not give voice. Wierick had never been able to publicly voice his feelings about Demios. He had never been able to put his overwhelming emotions into words. The respect that he had - the love that he felt - for those grunts who had held the planet for him. Those men and women who had refused to give up. They had given him courage to continue the fight at Ixion when he had thought they were again facing defeat. They had inspired him. They had inspired the entire fleet. Wierick felt deep in his heart that the victory at Ixion was the direct result of the actions of a handful of Marines on Demios. They had retaken the airfield on Demios, and that had saved the fleet at Ixion. They had the right to claim victory. Wierick reached across the table to shake McQueen's hand.
About half of the table thought Wierick to be extremely gracious and forgiving. About a quarter of the table thought that Wierick had just counted coupe against McQueen, who he would bust down to at least major at the first opportunity. A handful of people thought that Wierick had finally snapped under the strain of the last few months. About a half-dozen reflected on the remarkable brotherhood they shared as members of the Marine Corps. Two men shared each other's grief.
The toasts were clearly finished, and coffee was then served. Conversations restarted and became more relaxed. After about fifteen minutes, the Commandant dismissed the party: "Ladies and Gentlemen, will you join me in the bar?" With that time-honored phrase, the formal part of the evening came to an end. The atmosphere almost immediately changed.
Kylen was about to be introduced to one of the many paradoxes on which the Marine Corps is built:
speaking one's mind versus immediate obedience
risking failure versus a need to succeed
clearly defined plans versus quick-thinking improvisation
analyzing versus acting
the expectation that people can act independently versus everything for the team
the tried and true versus the creative
Tonight's lesson was straight out of the mouth of former Commandant John A. Lejeune.
"On social occasions the formality of strictly military occasions should be relaxed, and a spirit of friendliness and good will should prevail.....We are all members of the same great family."
After the very formal dinner and the even more formal ceremony of offering toasts, Mess Night always continues with drinks at the bar.' A peculiar switch occurs. The air of informality that follows carries with it a sense that people were almost "getting away with something." The feeling that the air has been let out of the balloon.
Kylen and McQueen left the dining hall together and were almost immediately joined by General Green. "Come with me, children," she said, as she walked past them on her way to join Captain Armstrong, who was standing against the wall. They obeyed.
"I love these nights," the General admitted to her charges. "We haven't done this in quite some time. And you." She pointed at Kylen, but the General was smiling openly - clearly amused. "You are a surprise. Did Ollie tell you to offer that toast?"
It had been a surprise that Kylen had stood to offer a toast. To have it be for the 5-8 did stand to reason: General Green had been given to understand that the girl had connections there. But to be aware enough - mature enough - to include the other rescue squadron in the toast? It showed considerable aplomb, as well as insight into the assembly's sensibilities.
"No, Ma'am. Captain Armstrong had reviewed the order of business and it seemed to me that not only was I allowed to offer a toast, but that, as a guest of honor, it was sort of expected. I felt that it needed to be said, and I realized that Colonel McQueen really couldn't say it without sounding self-congratulatory. I'm sorry, General Green, but I couldn't catch your eye. I did receive permission from the Commandant before I stood." "Three-star General Green just referred to Four-star General Radford as 'Ollie,'" Kylen realized with a start.
Green had actually been quite taken with Kylen's gesture. The General found her intriguing. She smiled again and patted the young woman's shoulder. "And speaking of standing ... Colonel, your hand." McQueen offered his hand, and the General used it to steady her balance while she hoisted her long skirt and stood on a chair. Becca Green turned into the renowned General Green in front of Kylen's eyes. Even though she was standing incongruously on a chair, the woman exuded confidence and undisputed leadership. The General spoke in her command voice. There was music and conversations, but no one in the room had any difficulty hearing what she had to say.
"Attention, Ladies and Gentlemen. It is not, I believe, as he would have preferred. I imagine he would rather be on the Saratoga. But please, let us take this opportunity to "wet down" T.C. McQueen's promotion. Well-deserved, Colonel." She held out her hand to McQueen. He was self-conscious, and was terrified that she would pull him up on the chair next to her. Terrified that she would expect him to say a few words. He swallowed hard and felt his brain go into overdrive to come up with something appropriate to say. He took her hand.
General Green looked down into his face and read his reaction. "No. Don't worry," she said quietly. "I'm not going to make you say anything." General Green stepped off of the chair. "Well, that ought to get things rolling. Thank you, Colonel. Captain Armstrong, I know that you have seen to the necessities."
"Ma'am, the cigars and the candy are behind the bar," Armstrong replied.
"You heard her, Colonel. Go forth and be magnanimous. We can get more, if needed."
McQueen hesitated. It was true that since it was his promotion that was being "wet down" he should pass out cigars and candy, but he really didn't like doing it. It made him feel vaguely foolish. He debated about leaving Kylen alone in this crowd, but was forced to remind himself: "She is going to be working with at least four of these people in a couple of weeks. That's undoubtedly part of the reason that she is here. I'm not going to be around. She has to learn. I can debrief her later." He turned on his heel and left the two women. Angela Armstrong trailed after him.
"Cigars? Candy?" Kylen asked.
"The officer promoted always passes them out," Becca explained.
"Cigars? Wait. It's tradition right?" Kylen asked with a smile.
"I have quite a collection," Green admitted. "Some people collect shells. Some people collect stamps, or pens, or postcards ... whatever. Almost everyone collects something. I collect meaningful cigars."
Kylen was half-tempted to ask if the general had a special case for her collection, but decided against it. "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar?" she asked, only half in jest.
General Green caught the lob - the oft used quote from Freud - and expressed her amusement openly. "Yes, indeed. I don't save every one, but there are meaningful cigars."
"And tonight's?" Kylen asked.
"Oh, I think it could be very meaningful. The Colonel is on track."
"Is he where he should be?" Kylen asked quietly, almost to herself. "Let the general ignore the loaded question it if she wants to," she thought.
"Where he should be?" Green picked up the bait. She wasn't caught unaware, but rather she was curious to see where the thread would lead.
"General, may I ask you a frank - and probably impolitic - question?" Kylen asked directly.
"Oh, I love impolitic questions."
"I meant in his career. Has the Colonel come as far as he deserves?"
"You are asking me if he has been the victim of discrimination." The general paused. There was nothing to lose by being forthcoming, and probably much more to gain. "He was in the InVitro platoons. That is a bit of history that no one is particularly proud of. And he has probably had to do more - to prove himself more - I'm afraid to say. Why? Has he expressed this feeling to you?"
"No, oh no. But I know that members of the Fifty-eighth have wondered why he isn't a general. They feel he might not have been promoted as he should have been."
General Green gave a small cough. "Rumor has it that you cut to the chase," she said to Kylen. "I wonder how much truth there is in the rest of the rumors?"
Kylen needed and very much wanted her job as an analyst in Marine Intelligence, but she hadn't been selected for the colonial program because she was a shrinking violet. She spoke with a shaded tone of voice - it could be a question - it could be an apology or an acquiescence. "Ma'am," was all she said. "Let the general decide how she wants to answer."
"Yes, and no. It is the best answer I can give you."
Becca Green silently reviewed the history she had so recently been studying. "Colonel McQueen is a mustang - an officer up from the ranks. As an enlisted man he had a rather checkered course for his first four years. A court-martial that could have easily resulted in his execution - saved only because he had done the right thing, and executing him would have raised too many questions. One battlefield promotion that he had lost - being busted back one stripe - for again doing the right thing and pissing people off. The man had had no political savvy, but uncanny judgment. McQueen had busted his chops and regained his rank. And when, again with another battlefield commission, he had finally won his butter bars - he had held on tight."
There was a world of information that Becca could give Kylen, but she had second thoughts. Frankly, it was none of the young woman's business. "Ask him yourself," she thought.
Usually the orchestra was dismissed after dinner and a drink with the president of the mess, but tonight they had been asked to stay. The Finnish Ambassador and his wife were both fine musicians, and the Marine Corps had a music department of which it was deservedly proud. The orchestra began to play. General Green whipped around to survey the scene.
"Now I wonder just who requested that they play that?" she asked. "I doubt it was McQueen. It was probably Brad Wierick, or maybe even Armstrong. Our uptight little Captain seems to have taken a shine to McQueen."
"What is it?" Kylen asked.
"It's a song that the 127th claimed as their own years ago - long before McQueen was a member. An old song by John Prine. Angel From Montgomery.' Mobile is closer to Loxley than Montgomery, but the song belongs to the 127th. The Angry Angels.
"It sounds like such a sad song."
"It is and it isn't," Becca said softly, almost to herself and then turned to regard the young woman beside her. "You expected fighter pilots to choose rock and roll - balls-to-the-walls, love 'em and leave 'em, didn't you?"
"Yes, I guess that I would have," Kylen admitted.
"For all their bravado, fighter pilots are, by and large, a rather romantic group of individuals - or rather they have a romantic view of their place in the scheme of things."
Kylen made a little noise in her throat.
"What?" Green asked.
Kylen leaned in, almost whispering to the general. Obviously she was sharing something of personal importance with the older woman. "My sister once asked me if I thought that Colonel McQueen had ever read any of the Bronte novels. He seemed to her to be so brooding. I told her that I hoped not - that I thought he already had a surprisingly romantic view of his place in the cosmos."
Becca Green stood transfixed by Kylen's little confession. Several members of the crowd started to sing the song. It was a slow, rather sad tune that was filled with regret, but also had a strange air of defiance. The crowd sang it with feeling. It had been a while since Green had heard it and a while since she had heard it sung so honestly.
"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.
Make me a poster of an old rodeo.
Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.
To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."
General Becca Green decided at that moment to change her position. She would share at least some - but only some - of what she knew about McQueen's career with this young woman. "Hell, in a couple weeks, if she really wants to know - if she wants to risk betraying his trust - she'll probably have access to McQueen's records anyway."
The singing continued around the two women.
"I am an old woman. Named after my mother,
My old man is another child who's grown old.
If dreams were thunder and lightnin' was desire,
This old house would have burned down a long time ago."
"Generally speaking, Kylen, it takes about fifteen years for an officer to move up through the ranks to full colonel. There are rare exceptions. Sometimes a scientist or someone with special skills will come in at advanced rank, but it is rare. In wartime things move more rapidly. McQueen got his first commission to second lieutenant only nine years ago. Would he be a brigadier if he was a natural-born? Not impossible, but highly unlikely. Only one in sixteen colonels will ever move up to brigadier. I don't know if he feels that he has been passed over for promotion, but I've seen his records - he hasn't. No, that type of prejudice would be too blatant." "He just had to do it in the most difficult ways possible. That's all." She paused and listened to the chorus of the song.
"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.
Make me a poster of an old rodeo.
Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.
To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."
Green again spoke to Kylen. "In the Marine Corps, officers move along a career path. We move around and have different postings. We attend different classes and can attend different schools to further our careers. There are certain billets and schools that can put a person on the "fast track."
"When I was a young girl, I had me a cowboy.
Weren't much to look at just a free, ramblin' man.
Well, that was a long time but no matter how hard I try,
The years just flow by like a broken down dam."
"I have to admit that I noticed that your friend did not have a lot of luck in getting billets or schooling that he requested - that he was qualified for." "More than qualified for. It is an embarrassment to the Corps." McQueen had been granted far fewer of his requests than was normal. It was obvious discrimination. It made Green sick to think of the time and opportunities that had been wasted. It was also obvious to her that, while McQueen seemed to have had one or two mentors along the way, no one had really focused his intellect along the career path. No one had appeared to work with him on what billets to request and in what order he should go after them. McQueen had always been exceptionally good at any assigned job. He performed. He won medals. He always made his C.O.s look good. It had been in their own best interests to keep him around for as long as they could.
"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.
Make me a poster of an old rodeo.
Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.
To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."
"Who makes these decisions?" Kylen asked. Clearly her temper was rising.
"The monitors," Green answered.
"The monitors!" Kylen almost choked. "Well, isn't that an unfortunate little choice of terms," she spat.
"They have been called 'monitors' for centuries. Long before the InVitros were ever even thought of. But I do take your point It is a rotated billet. Being a monitor is a part of a fast-track career."
"And McQueen, of course, was never a 'monitor.' It also could be a way of knocking out your competition, couldn't it?"
"That is one of the reasons why the position is rotated," Green said.
"There's flies in the kitchen. I can hear their buzzin'.
And I ain't done nothin' since I woke up today.
How the hell can a person go to work in the morning,
And come home in the evening and have nothing to say?"
Kylen looked around the room with new understanding - with new eyes. "And you invited him here tonight? With these people? How many would love to see him fail?"
"A few wouldn't shed any tears," Green admitted. "But he has more champions here than you realize. And, I am sure, far more than he realizes. No one was ordered to sing this song, Kylen. Your friend may - and I certainly do hope that he does - think it is a kind gesture. But there is more behind it than that." "T.C. McQueen has just been very publicly dropped into the fast track."
"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.
Make me a poster of an old rodeo.
Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.
To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."
"General Wierick appears to think highly of the Colonel," Kylen observed.
"Oh, Bradford? Yes, yes, he is an honest fan of our McQueen," the general said. "And Bradford is my competition," she thought. "We both have plans for your Colonel, Kylen. I'm disappointed to say that I think Brad is going to win this one, but not without some concessions and not without some safeguards." She would get what she wanted out of young Bradford, which was how she often still thought of the four-star general, who had actually served for a short time as a member of her staff. Far from being jealous, Becca Green took enormous pride that former members of her staff, aviators or no, seemed to move ahead gracefully in their careers. Besides, she wouldn't want Wierick's job. Not on your life.
The strains of 'Angel From Montgomery' faded away and the orchestra started a different tune. McQueen had finished passing out the cigars and began to cross the room toward the two women.
General Green's mind raced as she watched his approach. "Kylen hasn't picked up on it yet, but have you? Do you feel it, T.C.? Do you feel the bidding war going on around you? Are you be flattered? Or, more likely, does it piss you off? Do you feel, as a former slave, like you were on an auction block, stripped naked - all of us circling you, determining your relative worth to us? Checking your teeth - testing your muscle tone - 'Turn your head and cough, Boy.' I honestly don't think you have any idea. You are almost too self-effacing for your own good, Colonel T.C. McQueen."
McQueen reached the women. General Green nodded a greeting to him, but spoke to Kylen. "Ah yes, ... General Wierick. Well you know what they say, my dear: "The measure of another man's intelligence is the extent to which he agrees with you." "And because they often do agree: When McQueen does finally disagree with Brad - and I'm sure he will - Brad will listen. Yes, Bradford, the brat probably does need McQueen more than I do," mused Green.
"Nietzsche," said Kylen.
"I beg your pardon," said Green, not immediately following Kylen's train of thought.
"No, it's Mark Twain," McQueen said to Kylen. Both were trying to place the author of the quote Green had given.
"Do you think? I'm not really sure," Kylen said to him.
McQueen shrugged. He wasn't willing to bet on it either. "It's what I thought."
General Green was confused to be left so totally excluded from their conversation. It was unsettling. She determined to regain control, and addressed McQueen.
"Where is my cigar?"
"Captain Armstrong told me to save one for you," he said, patting the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Well, all seems to be forgiven for your rubbing a few noses in it," General Green noted, scanning the room, and then she trained the full weight of her gaze on McQueen. "You thought some of the guests were just a little too self-satisfied, did you?"
Kylen was a bit jolted by the change in the conversation. She had momentarily forgotten just who General Green was. Kylen had the dreadful feeling that she was overhearing something that she had no place in hearing, but something that the general wanted her to hear - or rather that the general wanted to have McQueen know that Kylen had heard. It was a not too subtle chastisement. Kylen had the feeling that she was suddenly sinking underwater - deep water - and she could think of no graceful way out of the situation.
McQueen was silent. Becca Green circled an arm through one of his. The act of familiarity softened her message to the Colonel. "It is a useful function. One that is needed on occasion, but I caution you on attempting to build the rest of your career on your skill in acting the Roman slave."
McQueen stiffened. Kylen stood paralyzed, with her mouth slightly open - wanting to say something, but too shocked to speak. It was beyond her comprehension that the general had called an emancipated InVitro a 'slave.' She saw the muscle in McQueen's jaw begin to twitch, and she saw his eyes narrow.
"General, I am no one's slave," he whispered tersely.
"Of course you are no one's slave," Green said as she gave his arm a little shake. "You just heard what you have been waiting to hear all evening, didn't you? An insult - open or veiled ... you have been waiting for it, haven't you? It is true that you will, unfortunately, have to steel yourself against them for the rest of your life. I'm sorry to say that I don't believe they will ever disappear entirely. I just decided that I would get it out of the way for you so that you would be able to concentrate on other things. And you are now thinking that I was testing you - and you are correct. I apologize to you and to our guest here," she said, taking Kylen's hand. "Forgive me, T.C.," she said, using his common nickname with its implied intimacy. "It was a seventy-percent solution to one of my problems."
There were a few moments of silence. Kylen could see that McQueen was processing the general's statement.
Green allowed her explanation to sink in. "He doesn't have to like it. But it is the truth and I need him to believe it. Sorry, young man, but I don't have a lot of time for the pleasantries," she thought.
McQueen directed his attention to Kylen. He had been able to calm himself, and spoke in their accustomed hushed tone of voice. "I don't know what the general felt was her problem. But what General Green means is that it is often better to decide quickly on an imperfect plan than to spend the time required to develop a perfect plan that would come too late to be of any use. Marines call it the seventy-percent solution."
"Thank you, Colonel," said Green. "Now, before either of you come to think of me as being irretrievably lost ... the Roman slave. The Romans liked to name things, and there are entire books about their slaves and the names they had for them, but in all those books I have never found the name, term, or title for this slave. Perhaps, given the Roman sensibilities, it was a taboo. In any case, during a Roman Triumph - the parade for the hero - a slave stood behind the hero ..."
"A slave stood behind the hero ..." McQueen interrupted. The light had dawned. He understood the general's reference. "And whispered into his ear. 'Remember you are mortal. Glory is fleeting. Remember you are mortal.'"
"Precisely." General Green smiled up at him, and then turned to Kylen. "By reminding us all of Demios, the Colonel dumped a load of reality on what was in danger of becoming an orgy of 'who is better than we are.' As I said - necessary on occasion - but it does not endear one in the hearts of others. It is a skill - a spice - that one should use sparingly."
Becca Green cast her eyes around the room and found Major Howard, who she gestured over to her group. "Major, the Colonel and I have a few things to discuss. Please attend to Ms.Celina. After all, she is your coup, and you probably want to show her off."
She did not wait for a response - in the Corps a superior officer's request carries the weight of a command. She gave Kylen a smile and a little pat. With her arm still linked with McQueen's, she led him away.
("Angel From Montgomery" was written by John Prine. I give crdit where it is due. I am not attempting to copyright his work, nor am I attempting to use it for profit.")