We were at Willow, naturally, but I was not at the bar talking to the Mikes and Ray. Sabrina was taking good care of us, and this was a Mac interview. We were over in the conversation nook in the front corner of the restaurant. There was a lot to talk about as usual, when you have the canvas of the whole 20th century to work over.

First, Tracy had just taken leave of her husband Brian, who served as the Willow’s business manager. Tracy has a well-earned reputation as one of Washington’s upper-tier chefs. Brian had worked for her as a line chef downtown, and I did not know what impact the fracture was going to have on our favorite hangout.

Mac was mildly interested in what the consequences of the marital rift were going to have on the restaurant, since the couple had their wedding in the place, when they were just done reconstructing the place from the dive it had been as Gaffney’s bar. We agreed to hope for the best for all concerned.

I took out the thick novel “Freedom” out of my briefcase. It was written by a guy named Jonathan Franzen, and apparently is one of those accounts of how shallow life is here in the States for the Baby Boomers. Mac was not particularly interested in it, since he actually lived his life to the fullest and did not worry much about what it signified.

He knew what it meant.

I had the novel because it was a co-choice of the Daedilus Book Society, an exclusive book club of which I am proud to be a member, and that of my son, who was going to swing by and pick it up. My club is very much free form, without regular meetings, so I was happy to loan it to him.

“So what did you want to talk about this afternoon?” asked Mac. “You said “the fifties” on the phone. That was an interesting time.”

“I think they all were,” I said. “Let’s just talk about what happened after you got back from the Pacific.” I took out my notebook and a fresh pen. Mac had a thoughtful look, and told me about working in the Pentagon on the Diplomatic Cable with two other officers from State and the Army about decrypts of messages sent by foreign governments. My eyebrows raised at their identities.

America was attempting to figure out what it was going to be in the post-war world, and new institutions like the CIA and NSA were being formed to cope with it. The admiral was in the swirl of it all.

“You know there were nine of them,” said Mac.

“Nine what?” I said, pausing my scribbling.

“Five star officers,” Mac said, smiling. “Seven were appointed during the war and two right after.”

I knew that Congress had authorized a special wartime ranks of “General of the Army,” and “Fleet Admiral” to accommodate the extraordinary responsibilities of the struggle against Fascism.

“They each had a date of rank one day apart. Let’s see: it was Marshall first, then Leahy, Eisenhower, King, Macarthur, Nimitz and Arnold. The last two were after the Japanese surrendered, Halsey and Omar Bradley.”

“They talked about doing it for Colin Powell around the time of the Gulf War,” I said.

Mac shook his head. “Wasn’t really appropriate,” he said. “The span of control was the issue. It was a pity Ray Spruance got aced out. Our Naval Intelligence Senator Dick Lugar tried to fix that, but his bill never got anywhere.”

“So what was it about the five stars that I should make a note of?”

Mac positively beamed. “I met all of them.”

My jaw dropped. If I did not have to be in Leesburg in an hour, I would tell you the story. Maybe tomorrow.

Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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