Featherstone nodded. "He was filing charges before he even made it to the hospital. He barely had a scratch on him."
I just nodded, and then sighed. "Have you ever heard about the four types of officers? I think it was one of the German generals who named them, Von Manstein or Clausewitz, maybe one of the Von Moltkes."
Featherstone looked puzzled for a second and then his eyes lit up. "Ah, yes, I take your meaning."
The specific source is somewhat debatable. The basic truism, though, is that an officer can be either smart or stupid, and either lazy or energetic. Smart and lazy officers make the best combat commanders. Smart and energetic officers make the best staff officers. Stupid and lazy officers are harmless; you can always make them the regimental historian or something, but are otherwise incapable of doing any damage. The only ones you have to worry about are the stupid and energetic officers - like Second Lieutenant Fairfax!
"You said they had him?"
Featherstone nodded. "Second Lieutenant Fairfax has been transferred to a training post with the Rwandan Army.", he said drily.
When the military wants to get rid of an officer, without going through the process of a court martial, the usual technique is to give the officer a lousy OER and then assign him to the ass end of the world until he resigns or retires. Alaska and Greenland in the winter, Saudi Arabia in the summer, that was the perfect way to tell Fairfax his next promotion would be a long time coming. The middle of Africa was certainly an interesting dumping ground.
As would be mine. "Maybe I'll say hello when I see him. Am I doing the Rwanda tour, too?"
"Hmmm?", commented Featherstone neutrally.
"Come on, Colonel, no matter what happens, my career is trashed. I was arrested in front of my men and taken away in handcuffs. The entire division knows I'm a mutineer and a murderer by now! How long before the rest of the Army knows?"
The colonel shrugged and dropped his cigarette butt into the makeshift ashtray. What was it, his fourth or fifth? He must have lungs that were as black as my soul! He pointed at my leg. "Captain, the reason your career is over is your leg. I talked to the doctor before I saw you. You'll never jump again. Hell, you're going to need two or three operations and three months of rehab just to be able to walk! You're history no matter what!"
And just like that I was out of the Army. No major at 28, no Fort Sill and CGS, no battalion or regiment or brigade command. Medicalled out at 26, and don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.
I simply shook my head in disbelief. "So, Colonel, tell me what happened? How the hell did we end up in Nicaragua anyway?"
Featherstone gave me a very serious look. "You are mistaken, Captain Buckman. You were never in Nicaragua. Your Honduran pilot got lost and dropped you in Honduras, not in Nicaragua. Is that clearly understood?" I snorted and rolled my eyes. "I asked if you understood me!"
"Don't push it, Colonel. I might understand it, but I don't have to like it. What's the rest of the fallout from this disaster? You know, the disaster that never happened?"
"It was a training accident, Captain. That's what we're calling it, and it's classified."
"And I was there, remember, so tell me everything if you want it to stay classified!", I pushed back.
Featherstone shrugged. "Well, like you said, shit flows downhill. Wilcox is taking early retirement..."
I must have gaped at that. "Lieutenant Colonel Wilcox? The battalion commander?!"
He nodded. "I can almost sympathize with him, but he should have never let Hawkins jump you from those planes. He should have stood his ground. Your brigade commander would have backed him up. He was absolutely furious when he heard about it." I shrugged and Featherstone continued, "Carmichael is gone, too. I made it clear to him that the only way he was avoiding something even worse was if he testified against the MP sergeant, Walsley. I tossed the book at him. He pled out and is getting two years in Leavenworth and a Big Chicken Dinner." That was a BCD or Bad Conduct Discharge. "He'd have gotten five years if he had fought it. The corporal took an Other Than Honorable discharge, and was damn glad to get it. Hell, the only reason the brigade commander didn't get canned was that he was called to Washington before this happened."
"And Hawkins?"
We were interrupted by a nurse coming in to take my temperature and ask me about lunch ("Chicken broth or beef?") She gave Featherstone holy hell about his smoking in a hospital. As soon as she left, he lit up another cigarette.
"Hawkins?", I repeated.
"Brigadier General Hawkins is now Major General (Designate) Hawkins. He will get his second star effective January 1. Operation Southern Shield '81 has been a rousing success.", he replied, deadpan.
My jaw dropped, and I gaped, my mouth flapping open and shut like a beached fish. After a minute or two, I got my wits together and cried out, "You're kidding me, right? They give him a battalion on a routine training deployment, and he gets two men killed, two medicalled out, two more cashiered, and another man sent to Leavenworth - and they gave him another star! Jesus Christ! Why not just give him the entire fucking brigade! He could have killed us all and made Chief of fucking Staff!"
"That's the way it works, Captain.", he replied. He shrugged. "Not that it matters much, but he had already been approved before this disaster. Maybe it will catch up to him before he gets his third star."
I knew what it was. It was the WPPA, the West Point Protective Association, at work. This was the informal association of West Point graduates, or 'ringknockers', so named because of the heavy and distinctive class rings they wore. They were known to rap their rings on a desk or chair arm on occasion, to let people know that as graduates of Hudson High, their opinions counted more than others.
When I graduated ROTC at RPI, I ranked high enough to be Regular Army, not Reserve. All West Point graduates are Regular Army, even the village idiot. All pigs are equal, but some pigs are more equal than others. The WPPA usually makes itself known by making sure that various graduates of West Point move up the ladder of promotion at the correct pace, or by otherwise getting them an appropriate posting or assignment. Sometimes it can be harmless, like when my old CO, Captain Harris transferred to Fort Rucker for helo flight training. His record with Battery B hadn't exactly been stellar, so the WPPA moved him somewhere else for a second chance.
Now it looked like the ringknockers were circling the wagons around Hawkins. I shook my head in disgust. "What'd they do with the pilot? Give him a medal?"
Featherstone shrugged. "Probably. You're getting one, why not him?"
"Excuse me? What medal? Best behaved prisoner?"
"Try a Bronze Star.", he said drily.
"Right." I stared at him, and he wasn't smiling. "You're serious?" He nodded. "For what?"
"The Bronze Star can be awarded for either bravery or merit, or both. You qualify, Captain, on both counts."
"Forget it! I'll never wear it! It's an insult to the men I was with!"
"You don't wear it for yourself, Captain, you wear it for the men you were with. It's always that way, son, for any medal. Believe me. Wear it for the ones who can't.", he replied. "Hell, if you want to, think of it as a payoff for keeping your mouth shut about this fucking nightmare. It doesn't matter. Believe me, you earned it!"