The private said, “Someone just turned off the light in that room there.” He pointed to the windows of the reception room off the main hallway. Where there once had been a slice of light below the blackout curtain, there was now only darkness.
The corporal said, “I remember the first time I tried that with my girl back home. Snuck my arm around her shoulder and switched off the lamp. She was ready for that kiss, I’ll tell you. She almost sucked my lips off.”
The library blackout curtain had a number of pinholes in it, through which lights glinted. These suddenly went out. I held up my hand for silence, but sexual drivel, like smallpox, is hard to contain once loosed.
“Yeah?” the private asked. “My girlfriend back in North Chicago, first time I kissed her, she stuck her tongue so far down my throat I gagged. Christ, it was like an eel loose between my teeth. I coughed and spit, pretty much killing the mood. Then I learned she’d been going out with one sailor after another from the Great Lakes navy training center before she met me.”
The hall light was visible through a slight gap in the circular window above the doorway. It was extinguished. I said, “Please, quiet.”
“Milt, goddamn it,” the corporal lectured, “no tongue that’s ever been in a sailor’s mouth will ever go into mine, I’ll tell you that much. You got to have some standards in this life.”
In the south wing, a light was turned off. The ground floor of the manor was now black. I was seized with alarm. Lady Anne Percival was going to work her will on the unsuspecting and, compared to her, innocent general.
I turned to the private. “I want you to call 16th Engineers and tell them General Clay’s temporary HQ has lost power.”
We were in the 1st Armored’s sector, and the 16th was its engineer battalion.
“What, sir?”
“Do it now, Private, or you’ll be dredging latrines for the duration.”
The corporal brought his knee off the wheel. “Hell, Colonel Royce, the general deserves a little nookie more than most folks in this war.”
I pointed at the private. “Get on the phone.”
He shrugged and lifted the handset. I peered up at the second floor. Slits of light could be seen below the blackout cloths. One room abruptly went dark. The private spoke into the phone.
Alex Hargrave laughed when I told him this story. “Jack, you were having a jealous fit.”
I only knew my general needed help.
Another light was doused. I ordered the private, “Tell them this is a priority one. If a company of engineers isn’t here within five minutes, General Clay will have their asses.”
“Yes, sir,” the private answered uncertainly. He plugged an ear with a finger and continued talking into the phone.
I waited anxiously, drumming the jeep’s hood, glancing at my wristwatch, and watching the second floor lights go out one by one. Finally the enormous house was dark. Wilson Clay of Davenport, Washington, was in a darkened mansion with a diabolical European seductress. I was not thinking like an adult, I concede.
The 16th Engineers must have gotten my message, because eight minutes later half a dozen four-ton GM trucks roared out of the night and screeched to a stop near our jeeps. A captain leaped down from the passenger seat of the lead vehicle and ran up to me.
“Colonel, we got here as soon as we could. Tell me the problem.”
Other soldiers spilled out of the trucks, many carrying tool boxes and spools of wire.
“We’ve had a power failure here. General Clay wants it fixed right now. I don’t know exactly what the problem is.”
All soldiers in the AEF were eager to be of personal service to the general. The captain said, “We’ll find it, don’t worry.”
He issued orders. The soldiers quickly spread out. Some pushed open the manor house’s door and rushed inside. Others circled the building. Still others pointed flashlight beams up at the power lines. One engineer donned climbing spurs and started toward a power pole.
A room at a time, lights came on. I could hear the engineers’ heavy boots on the hardwood floors. Instructions and questions were called out. Their commotion was gratifying.
The corporal said from his jeep, “Colonel, I don’t really want to be here when General Clay comes out of that house.”
I replied, “Neither do I.”
It didn’t take long.
Clay appeared at the door, backlit by the hall light. The house was now ablaze in light. He walked toward the jeep. His uniform was rumpled. His face might have been smudged with lipstick, but it was too dark near the jeep to tell.
“Jack, do you know anything about this?” His voice was bitter with lost opportunity. Or perhaps he tried to make it sound that way for the benefit of his young bodyguards.
“Sir?”
“Do you know why the goddamn 16th Engineers would show up at Earl Selden’s home just now, crashing into the house, running up and down the stairs, barging into rooms, pointing their goddamn flashlights into every corner, hollering and carrying on?”
“The 16th Engineers?” I’m not too good at thinking on my feet.
He climbed into the jeep. “Jack, I want you to investigate this and hang whoever did it. And if it was you, you hang yourself, and do it so you suffer.”
“Yes, sir.”
This was indeed a mild reproach for my brazen and juvenile act. The reason was found in Clay’s voice. His tone was of relief. He never mentioned this little episode again, but I suspect he viewed it as a narrow escape.
I started the jeep’s engine, and we pulled away from Haldon House. I heard Lady Anne’s voice. It was several octaves above the level that passes as polite in English society. She was gutting the 16th’s captain. I pitied him.
Lady Anne’s pekinese was burdened with the registered name Wallingford Warmspring’s Lady, but went by the nickname Wee Wee. To see the elegant, haughty daughter of an earl, dressed in silk and diamonds, wander through her manor house calling out, “Wee Wee, Wee Wee, here Wee Wee,” almost made the war worthwhile for me. A higher-strung and more worthless cur cannot be imagined. The peke, not Lady Anne.
One afternoon during a session with Earl Selden, General Clay approached me. “Jack, Lady Anne’s goddamn dog has been missing since yesterday.”
“Sir?”
“I want to do her a favor and find it.”
I waited, not picking up my cue. Finally, I said, “Go ahead, sir.”
“Jack, a four star general in the United States Army doesn’t have time to look for a useless pekinese.”
“No, sir.”
“But a lieutenant colonel does.”
“Aw, goddamn it, sir.”
“You go find that flea bag and give it to me so I can hand it over to Lady Anne. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
It seemed to me that the more eyes that searched for Wee Wee, the more quickly it would be found. I telephoned Lieutenant Colonel Al Fantine of the 19th Ordnance Battalion.
I said into the telephone, “Al, this is Jack Royce, General Clay’s ADC.”
“Sure, Jack. What’s going on?”
General Clay’s name always pricked up ears. I seldom used the authority of his name, but this time I did. I knew, however, that while no battalion commander would order his men to scour the land looking for an English noblewoman’s dog, they would cheerfully search for the AEF commander’s animal.
I lied, “General Clay’s dog is missing. Your battalion is posted near Haldon House.”
“You bet,” Colonel Fantine said. “We’re right down the lane. I’m looking at the mansion right now.”
“Well, could you have your men look for it?”
“Of course. Only too happy to oblige General Clay. I’ll send six hundred men into the field two minutes from right now. What are we looking for?”