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Somehow you didn’t think of Pvt. Joe Kelly fighting through walls of flame to win the princess. You thought of him as the tough kid at the filling station who whistles through his teeth at bobby soxers going past in jalopies. But he was off to marry an Asiatic girl in a strange land and I had to admit that he had guts.
    I was watching him when General Webster called my name and when I looked his way there stood Mrs. Webster, too. I shouted, “Surprise! When did you get here?”
    Mrs. Webster was a handsome woman—the kind who appear in ads wearing tailored suits and white hair and telling the young bride why one cleaner is better than the other—and it was widely understood in Army circles that Mark Webster owed most of his success to this brilliant and energetic woman. I once heard my father say, when some of his classmates from ’22 were visiting, “Mark Webster at the Point was an inevitable colonel. Absolutely impossible for him to go further. But a first-class wife came along and made him a general.” There was no scorn in his voice when he said this—and no envy.
    When Mrs. Webster saw me she hurried forward to kiss me on the cheek. I had to make believe I didn’t know where Eileen was so I asked, “What’s the news from Eileen?”
    The conspirators looked at each other archly. “She’s still at work in the oil company,” Mrs. Webster said. “But she finds Tulsa dull without you around.”
    “Boy, did I find Korea dull without her!”
    General Webster said, “I hope you didn’t mind my dragging you away from the Russians.”
    “Frankly, sir, I approved. I was getting a bit jittery.”
    “Well, we’ll drive you in to Kobe and let you see what the setup is. You’re on the Interservice Aviation Board, you know, but you don’t start work for a week.”
    “I’ll get some sleep,” I said, and the Websters snickered to themselves.
    He led me to a black Cadillac with one bright red star on the license plate. He had always been something of a dandy, ten pounds underweight, extra-sharp uniforms and a smart headquarters company to make him look good. He was what enlisted men call chicken because he demanded all the military courtesies, straight caps, shined shoes. He himself moved with an exaggerated stride and cultivateda straight-from-the-heart look. Having known my own father well and having discovered in him a real general who cut right through the nonsense to the hard core of every problem, leaving glossy shoes and snappy salutes to others, I often suspected that Mark Webster was merely playing at being a general. Once I remarked on this to my father, who grew very angry. He said, “Look, Know-it-all! The Army needs many different kinds of generals. Mark Webster can do a dozen things I can’t do.” Then he scowled and said, “Not that I would want to do them. But don’t underestimate the men who keep the organization running.” About three days later we were dining in a restaurant that featured a lot of swank and Father said, “I always admire headwaiters who appear unflustered yet keep the organization running.” I put my hand over my mouth and mumbled, “That’s what you said the other day about General Webster.” He looked up sharply, considered for a moment and said, “I guess that’s what I meant—if I said it.”
    But on this ride in from the airport General Webster was way off stride. He wasn’t his urbane self at all. In fact, he was downright uncomfortable, but it wasn’t until we neared the center of Kobe that I found out what was eating him. Mrs. Webster was riding herd again.
    We were passing a corner at which half a dozen enlisted men—we had orders not to call them G.I.’s any more—were loafing. They were in Kobe for Rest and Recuperation from the front in Korea. Like most soldiers, they were recuperating with streetwalkers. Five chunky Japanese girls were standing with them and as we drove by, one of the soldiers slapped a girl on the bottom. She