The Captains by W. E. B. Griffin Page B

AGC
Acting Adjutant General
    (Two)
Fairfax, Virginia
15 July 1950
    Lt. Colonel Robert F. Bellmon, Armor (Detail, General Staff Corps), Chief of the Tank and Armored Personnel Carrier Section of the Tracked Vehicle Division of the Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff for Operations, had caught himself making six stupid mistakes in a two-hour period in his office in the Pentagon, and had decided to call it quits.
    He knocked at the office door of his boss, a brigadier general, who looked up and smiled, but did not speak.
    â€œWith your permission, sir,” Bellmon said, “I’m going to hang it up. I’m spending more time correcting the stupid mistakes I’m making than I am doing anything worthwhile.”
    â€œYou’ve been reading my mind, again, Bob,” the general said. “Honest to God, I was just about to get up and run your ass out of there. You’ve been putting in too much time.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” Bellmon said. “I’ll see you in the morning, General.”
    â€œNo, Colonel. You will see me Friday morning. You will take tomorrow and the day after tomorrow off.”
    â€œI’ll be all right in the morning, General,” Bellmon protested.
    â€œIndulge me, Bob,” the general said. “Take a couple of days off. Get drunk. Charge your batteries.”
    â€œI’ll really be all right in the morning, General.”
    â€œSplendid,” the general said. “Then you will be able to enjoy your morning ride through the Virginia hills, or your golf game, or for that matter, whatever indoor sport strikes your fancy. Goddamn it, I told you Friday.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Bellmon said. “Good afternoon, General.”
    â€œYou tell Barbara what I said,” the general said.
    â€œAbout indoor sports, General?” Bellmon asked, with a smile.
    â€œLeave, Colonel!” the general said, and pointed his finger out the door.
    Bellmon went to Pentagon Parking Lot A64-B and found his 1948 Buick convertible (as far as he was concerned, the last of the good ones) and started home.
    He started to plan, for he was by nature a planner. The statement of the problem was that he was exhausted, physically and, more important, mentally. Since he had returned from Europe, summoned off leave when the Korean balloon went up, he had been putting in eighteen-hour days of logistic chess. He had been trying to find and move and arrange for the inspection and repairs of sufficient tanks to equip the forces presently in Korea, those in Japan about to go to Korea, those in Hawaii about to go to Japan and/or Korea, those in the United States about to go to Hawaii, Japan, and/or Korea, and those about to be formed.
    He loved the challenge. Not as much as he would have loved to command one of the tank battalions, of course, but as the next best thing. It was a bona fide intellectual challenge, even more fascinating than chess, because the available supplies and the requirements for them changed literally hourly.
    He had done a good job, shuffling around literally billions of dollars’ worth not only of tanks and personnel carriers, but the support for them, human and materiel. This had exhausted him. He’d reached his limits.
    He would be all right in the morning, but the general had been dead serious. He was not to report back to work before Friday.
    With a little bit of luck, he could get the kids to go to bed early, and then he’d feed Barbara a couple of martinis, and they could make whoopee tonight. That’s what he needed. Dr. Bellmon’s prescription for Colonel Bellmon’s exhausted condition: three martinis and a piece of tail.
    Twenty minutes after he left the Pentagon, he reached the split rail and fieldstone fence of “the Farm.” There was no name on the mailbox by the drive and no sign. There was only an old mule-drawn plow, painted black, sitting on the fieldstone fence, clearly visible.
    It was a question of