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“Two years of college. PFC Williams has two years and two months of high school. I thought of the CIC, Captain,” the lieutenant said.

“The U.S. Army moves on a trail of paper, Lieutenant,” Captain Michaels said. “You may wish to write that down. That suggests to me that the CIC may have clerk-typists to care for its special agents.”

“They call them CIC administrators.”

“And what does the CIC demand, education wise, of potential CIC administrators?”

The appropriate regulations were consulted. Nothing was mentioned at all about minimum educational standards for potential CIC administrators.

“Permit me, PFC Williams, to wish you all the best in your CIC career,” Captain Michaels said.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Sir, what’s the CIC?”

[ Seven ]

The CIC Center and School

Fort Holabird

1019 Dundalk Avenue

Baltimore, Maryland

0845 Monday, February 3, 1947

PFC Williams stood at the position known as Parade Rest—feet spread, hands locked behind his back—before the desk of the company commander of Company B.

The company commander, a captain who had been sitting behind the desk when Phil had first been taken into the office by Company B’s first sergeant, was now standing against the wall next to the first sergeant.

The captain had given up his chair to the major who, after the first sergeant had brought the problem at hand to the captain’s attention, had brought it to the major’s attention, whereupon the major had announced, “I’ll be right there.”

The problem was that there was indeed a minimum educational requirement for CIC administrators, although it had not reached Fort Dix. It clearly stated that high school graduation was a prerequisite. And, as first the first sergeant and then the captain had learned—and the major was now learning—from the classified SECRET Final Report, Williams, Philip Wallingford III, Complete Background Investigation of—Phil’s formal education had ended after two years and some months of secondary school.

“That’s as far as you got in school, son, is it?” the major asked. “Got kicked out again, did you? And ran off and joined the Army? With a forged birth certificate?”

“Yes, sir,” Phil confessed.

He had visions of himself blindfolded and tied to a stake, as he waited for the firing squad to do its duty.

“We’ll have to send him back, of course, sir,” the captain said to the major. “But I thought I’d better check with you first, sir.”

The major ignored him.

“Tell me, son, did you get the boot from Saint Malachi’s School for academic deficiency? Or was it something else?”

“Sir, it was something else.”

“What else? Every detail of what else.”

Phil confessed to stealing the intimate undergarments of Miss Bridget O’Malley, a student of Miss Bailey’s School who was visiting St. Malachi’s as captain of Miss Bailey’s School’s Debating Team, from where they had been hung out to dry, and then hoisting them up St. Malachi’s flagpole. And then cutting the rope.

“I see,” the major said. “And tell me, son, where did you get that Expert Marksman’s Badge pinned to your tunic? You bought it at an Army-Navy store, to impress the girls, right?”

“No, sir. I got it from the Army.”

“You expect me to believe that in your brief military career, you have become an expert with the rifle, the pistol, and the submachine gun?”

“Yes, sir, and also the shotgun.”