Moriarty, Bruce T. 2LT Cav 0558281
Auth: VOCG U.S. Constabulary 23 Jan 1946
E*X*T*R*A*C*T
By Command of Maj Gen Harmon:
Bruce T. Nettles
Bruce T. Nettles
Colonel, AGC
Adjutant General
SECRET
Claudette looked up from the orders. “Welcome, welcome, Lieutenant Winters!”
He smiled. “Thank you . . .”
“This is Miss Colbert, Lieutenant Winters,” Cronley said, “who, as I mentioned, is our administrative officer. If she decides to like you, she may allow you to call her Dette. If she decides not to like you, you’ll be in the deep doo-doo.”
“Duly noted,” Winters said, smiling, and put out his hand to Claudette. “You can—and I hope you will—call me Tom.”
“Welcome, Tom,” Claudette said. “Where’s the other one? And does that ‘Dep Auth’ apply to both of you, and if not, to which one of you?”
“You will notice, Winters, that our Dette is already asking the piercing questions for which she is famous. And where is Bonehead?”
“‘Bonehead’?” Claudette parroted.
“When Lieutenant Moriarty and I were Fish at our beloved Texas A&M,” Cronley explained, “he was chastised for his hair being too long. So he got another haircut, which also failed to meet the high standards imposed on us by upperclassmen, who were kindly introducing us to la vie militaire, so he shaved his skull.”
“You were at A&M with this Lieutenant Moriarty?” Claudette asked.
Cronley nodded. “For four long years. Which brings us back to, where is he?”
“He’s in Fritzlar, waiting for the wrath of Colonel Fishburn to fall on his head.”
“He still shaves his head?” Claudette asked
“Ginger, Mrs. Bonehead, cured him of that,” Cronley said. “To answer your original question, both of these officers are married men.”
“Children?” she asked.
“That will occur shortly in both cases,” Cronley said.
“‘Wrath of Colonel Fishburn’?” Claudette parroted again.
“The commanding officer of the 11th Constabulary Regiment is not going to like losing these two officers, which he will learn of as soon as a copy of these orders come to his attention. Which will be when, Tom?”
“We fly—Constab Headquarters flies—a daily round-robin messenger service to all the regiments. I’d guess Colonel Fishburn will get a copy of these orders before noon.”
“Whereupon his anger will likely fall on Bonehead,” Cronley said.
The door opened again and Hessinger walked in.
“You’re a little late, Freddy,” Cronley greeted him. “Had a little trouble getting the fräulein to go back to her village, did you?”