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The bartender saying “as before” may mean this is her second martini—or her fourth.

She’s a little plastered—that would go along with those sad eyes—and doesn’t realize what she’s doing.

“. . . to which all newly arrived CIC and ASA personnel,” Mrs. Schumann continued, “and their dependents are invited. The idea is to welcome them, let them meet General Greene and Major McClung—he runs ASA EUCOM—and tell them what they can expect during their tour of duty in the Army of Occupation.”

She took a sip of her martini, then turned and set the glass on the bar. Her knee moved off his.

“You didn’t come to yours, Cronley?” General Greene asked.

“No, sir. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

What actually happened, General, was that when I joined the happy little EUCOM CIC community, the XXIInd CIC Detachment in Marburg, the executive officer thereof, Major John Connell, welcomed me by inquiring of my qualifications to be a CIC agent, and then said, “Well, we’ll find something for you to do where you can cause only minimal damage.”

“Well, pay attention when we get in there. It’s never too late to learn, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

—

General Greene’s aide-de-camp appeared moments later to announce, “They’re ready for you, Mrs. Schumann, and the colonel, sir. The captain?”

“Show Cronley where he’s to sit at the head table.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cronley examined his drink, took another sip, then put the still-half-full glass on the bar. Mrs. Schumann put her martini glass on the bar, but only after drinking it dry. She then steadied herself to get off her bar st

ool by holding on to Cronley’s arm.

[ FOUR ]

1210 30 October 1945

General Greene’s aide installed Cronley in a chair near the center of the head table. He sat alone. Everybody else in the dining room was lining up across the room passing through the reception line. There were a dozen people in it, lined up apparently by rank. The first three people were Mrs. Schumann, General Greene, and Colonel Mattingly. Next was a large mustachioed major wearing the crossed semaphore flags insignia of the Signal Corps. Cronley decided he was probably Major McClung of the Army Security Agency.

A waiter in a crisp white jacket appeared and asked if the captain would like a drink.

“Jack Daniel’s, danke,” Cronley answered, and then wondered if that had been smart.

I’m going to have to deal with Mattingly when this happy CIC/ASA community bullshit is over. And the way to do that is stone sober.

The drink was delivered as two officers made their way to their seats at the head table. They were both majors, and he saw from their lapel insignia—a silver cross and a golden six-pointed star—that they were both chaplains.

I knew the Army had them, but that’s the first Jewish chaplain I’ve ever actually seen.

And why not a Jewish chaplain? There’s a hell of a lot of Jews in our happy little CIC/ASA community.

The Christian chaplain looked askance at Cronley’s whisky glass.

Why do I suspect you’re Baptist, Chaplain?

Even though he had very carefully nursed his Jack Daniel’s, the glass was empty before all the handshaking was over and everybody came to take their seats at the head table.

Mrs. Schumann took her seat beside him, steadying herself as she did so by resting her hand high on his shoulder.

He smiled politely at her.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have very sad eyes?” she asked.