July-September, 1946
The Orion Belle docked late in the afternoon of the fifth day after leaving Danzig. As Colling and Elizabeth stood at the rail watching the ship’s crew and the Swedes on the wharf engaged in bringing the vessel alongside the wharf, she informed him she had asked Captain Stackhouse to radio ahead to the American embassy. When the side of the Orion Belle bumped gently against the pier, she suggested they gather their belongings from their cabin and prepare to disembark.
They were met by three men wearing trench coats. Their appearance and demeanor reminded Colling of stereotypical espionage agents he had seen in the movies, and he wondered whether the men were imitating Hollywood, or was it the other way around? Each of the men was standing by one of three cabs lined up on the dock. While the taxi drivers loaded their meager luggage into the trunks of the cars, the men issued polite instructions, directed the three Poles to crowd into the nearest vehicle, while Colling was motioned into the second, and Elizabeth into the third. The man who slid into the back of the cab beside Colling introduced himself as Andrew Quarles. After directing the driver to take them to the Svenska Metropole, he settled back in his seat. Quarles was silent until they had left the dock area, but then began pointing out various Stockholm landmarks as they drove through the city’s streets. When Colling opened his mouth to ask whether the others were going to the Metropole as well, Quarles cut him off before he could speak, nodding at the back of the taxi driver’s head. Taking the hint, Colling turned his attention to staring at the buildings lining the broad avenues along which they were speeding, and made up his mind to postpone any attempt to obtain answers to the more pressing questions that he would have liked to have had answered.
Quarles approached the registration desk when they arrived at the Metropole, and checked Colling in. The clerk eyed Colling standing beside Quarles, still wearing seaman’s denims and turtleneck, but seemed to accept Quarles’ explanation that Colling was an American sailor who had recently been pulled from the sea, and that the American Embassy had taken him under its wing. The cab driver had appeared with Colling’s battered suitcase in hand, and Quarles ordered it taken to Colling’s room. Colling was about to follow his suitcase into the elevator, when Quarles pulled at his arm, motioning with his head towards the hotel dining room.
The maitre-de seemed displeased by Colling’s casual appearance, but seated them nevertheless. Quarles told him to order what he wanted, and Colling asked for a steak and potatoes, salad, fresh fruit, cheese, calling back the waiter to tell him he also wanted ice cream for dessert. Quarles sat with him, drinking only coffee, watching Colling intently as he progressed hungrily through his meal. Quarles offered no conversation, and Colling decided to concentrate on what was in truth the best meal he had had in weeks.
When Colling had finished eating, Quarles signed the check and accompanied Colling to the door of his room, handed him the key, and warned him to stay put and not leave the hotel. Colling had not slept well on the Orion Belle, and admitted to himself that he was in no mood to go sightseeing in Stockholm. He took a hot shower and went to bed, where he slept soundly despite the fact that it was still bright daylight outside at nine o’clock at night.
The Svenska Metropole was not among the best hotels in Stockholm, but reasonably comfortable, and its rooms and furnishings were in decidedly better condition than those of the Polonia. Their taxi had not been followed by either of the others, and Colling had no idea where Karol, Tomasz and Jan might be. He had had a slim expectation that Elizabeth would eventually arrive and share his quarters, but she had not rejoined him after they separated at the quayside.
Because of the lack of any means of contraception, he had not made love to Elizabeth since their last night at Karol’s house. He had wanted to renew their physical relationship on the Orion Belle, but she continued to resist his attentions out of her expressed fear of pregnancy, and they had slept separately in their bunks on the ship. He had hoped that once in Stockholm, he would be able to buy prophylactics. He considered how he might broach the subject with Quarles, but decided that the matter was too sensitive to discuss.
The next morning, Colling had just emerged from the bathroom to hear a knock on the door. He opened it to find Quarles, accompanied by a bellman with a hanger over one shoulder holding a navy blue pinstripe suit and his other arm wrapped around a stack of cardboard boxes; a hatbox dangled from his fingers. The bellman pushed past Colling and dropped the boxes in a jumble on the unmade bed, and then hung the suit in the room’s wardrobe. When Colling casually lifted the lids of the boxes, he saw that they contained shirt, tie, underwear, socks and shoes. The hatbox held a snap-brim hat.
Quarles asked Colling to get dressed and join him for breakfast in the dining room, as he pressed a tip into the bellman’s hand. Without saying anything else, Quarles followed on the bellman’s heels as the two men left Colling’s room.
A different maitre-de led Colling to Quarles’ table, where he found that Quarles had already ordered a full breakfast for each of them, instead of the usual continental-style coffee and a roll. The waiter was just placing the food on the table as Colling sat down. When Quarles greeted him, Colling congratulated him on choosing the right sizes for his new clothes.
Quarles answered, “Miss Hamilton gave them to me.”
Colling tried to remember when he would have discussed his clothing sizes with Elizabeth, and recalled a casual conversation they had one afternoon as they were lying in bed at Frau Bergheim’s, when they had told each other their different measurements. He recalled that he had had the notion at the time that he might buy her some article of clothing as a gift, and had seen the discussion as a way of finding out what sizes she wore. Quarles’ response revealed that the correct interpretation that he should have placed on her questions was that they were just another way of gaining information to be filed away for future use. He suppressed his irritation, picked up his fork and began eating.
Quarles finished his own breakfast and, as Colling continued eating, indicated that it was possible that he might answer some of the questions that Colling had raised the previous day.
“For instance, you wanted to know where Miss Hamilton is,” said Quarles. “She flew out last night to London, and then she’ll be on her way to the States. You’ll be headed back to the Army in Germany with me on a flight this afternoon. Don’t worry, your absence will be covered. We’ve arranged for you to have been given a ‘TDY,’ a temporary duty stint, in Paris. Liz,…I mean Miss Hamilton, got us to pick up your bags at the Munich Bahnhof, so you’ll have your own uniform back when you land at Rhein-Main.”
“What about Karol and his friends?” asked Colling.
“I can’t tell you where they went, but they’ve left already.”
“Karol isn’t Liz’s uncle, is he?” asked Colling, making an intuitive guess.
Quarles hesitated momentarily: “A distant relation.”
“What was this all about, sir?”
“We had to get some people out of Poland, and Liz was picked to do it. She asked you along for the ride because you could speak the language and it provided a plausible story, the young American couple assisting the Red Cross and all.”
“But things didn’t work out like they were supposed to, did they?”
“Nope. It was supposed to be an in-and-out operation, but the Reds were tipped. Liz told us you were pretty resourceful. She said if it hadn’t have been for you, they might not have made it. You know, if you’re interested, you could put in for a commission and an assignment to our outfit.”
“What do you mean by outfit, the OSS?” asked Colling.
“Nah. The Office of Strategic Services is no more…disbanded.” Quarles watched Colling’s face as he continued, “Donovan recruited too many people who admire the way the Russians do things, if you know what I mean. We’re kind of a separate operation.”
Colling’s opinion of the OSS was, as with most Americans, derived principally from the movies, where it was portrayed as an efficient intelligence operation filled with courageous volunteers who were more than willing to sacrifice their lives for the United States of America. This was the first time that he had ever heard it disparaged, or that Communists had been part of it. As a result, a certain level of skepticism about Quarles colored his answer, “Well, I don’t know. I’m kind of set right now on finishing my enlistment and getting out of the Army.”
“I understand. But you have a lot of aptitude, so if you change your mind, I’m stationed at HQ in Heidelberg. Here’s where you can reach me. Just give me a call,” he said, handing Colling a card on which the name “Major Andrew Quarles, U.S.A.” was printed. Pencilled under the name was a phone number.
That afternoon Colling and Quarles left Stockholm on a TWA flight to Paris. It was Colling’s first flight, and he was both nervous and curious. He watched in fascination from the plane’s tiny window as they gained altitude, and had some understanding of how flyers could become addicted to their trade. They were soon over the Baltic, and with little new to see except sunlight reflecting off the water below, Colling turned his attention to a copy of The Saturday Evening Post that the stewardess had brought him soon after boarding. He had not seen an issue of the Post since leaving home, and he realized how much he missed seeing its Norman Rockwell covers and the cartoons scattered through its pages. The several articles discussing what was to be done with post-war Europe did not hold his interest, and he absorbed himself in the new C. S. Forester story.
He finished reading and, as he closed the magazine, looked at Quarles seated beside him, his head resting on the back of his seat, seeming to doze. Quarles must have sensed he was being observed, as he sat upright and looked around, as if suddenly awakened. He noticed Colling and said, “Sorry. My reaction to flying. I always seem to fall asleep.”
Colling said, “This is the first time I’ve been up in a plane. I don’t think I could sleep.”
“I have something for you,” replied Quarles, as if he had almost forgotten an important detail.
He pulled a thick manila envelope from inside his coat and handed it to Colling. Colling opened it to find it contained a stack of U.S. dollars and an Army travel authorization from Paris to Grabensheim. When Colling raised his eyebrows at the cash, Quarles said, “There’s a thousand there. Elizabeth told us you used some of your own money. Just say this is for ‘expenses’ and to replace what you spent.” Colling thought that Quarles was particularly generous, but kept himself from saying so.
There was also a typewritten list of names and addresses that Quarles suggested he memorize if he were to explain his temporary duty assignment in Paris. Colling asked where he might write to Elizabeth, and Quarles recited a Philadelphia address that Colling wrote on the outside of the envelope.
Not quite four hours after leaving Stockholm, they landed at the Aeroport d’Paris, which, like the rest of Paris, had suffered little physical damage from the war. Quarles directed him to the U.S. Army Air Force terminal where he could catch a military flight to Rhein-Main, and then a train from Frankfurt to his home base. Quarles explained that he was not returning to Heidelberg right away, but would be remaining in Paris. He wished Colling luck before turning and walking away.
The Air Force flight office was in a wooden barracks outside the modern civilian airport terminal. His suitcase in hand, dressed in civilian clothes, Colling asked the Air Force staff sergeant behind the counter when the next flight to Germany might be. Seemingly disinterested in Colling’s appearance or circumstances, the sergeant informed Colling that the next military flight to Rhein-Main would be in the morning.
Colling thought it would be a little ostentatious to take cash from the envelope Quarles had given him, so he kept it in his inside coat pocket. Instead, he used money he had taken from the secret compartment in his suitcase before leaving his room at the Metropole to pay the staff sergeant for postage stamps and a package of stationery that he selected from a wire display rack on the counter. He wrote to his parents, explaining that the maneuvers had lasted far longer than he had anticipated. He then composed a letter to Elizabeth, deliberately avoiding sentimentality. When he re-read what he had written, the end result sounded flat. The only time he used the word “love” was in the closing. He decided not to try and redo the letter, and instead, folded it into an envelope and copied the address Quarles had given him onto it. There was a mail box on the wall of the waiting room into which he dropped the letters.
He spent the rest of the evening studying the sheet of paper that Quarles had given him and reading old issues of Time, Newsweek, and Esquire and more recent copies of Stars and Stripes that were scattered on the benches in the waiting room. He eventually went to sleep curled up on one of them, until he was shaken awake by an Air Force corporal who told him that he could board the C-47 that would take him to the Air Force base at Rhein-Main. The flight was shorter, but less comfortable than the commercial one from Stockholm. Seats for passengers on the transport plane were the same aluminum benches on the sides of the aircraft that paratroopers used, and Colling’s knees were cramped against one of the crates that were stacked in its center.
Colling’s B-4 bag was waiting for him at the Army baggage counter at Rhein-Main. He found a restroom where he washed and changed into his uniform. He was surprised to discover that the shirts had been laundered and folded, and that the trousers and jacket had been cleaned and pressed. The civilian clothes and the folded B-4 bag were packed into the suitcase. He caught a ride in an Air Force corporal’s jeep to the familiar Army railway terminal outside Frankfurt. He had to rush to board his train, and was seated just as it began pulling away from the station. He was able to take only a short glance across the tracks to the Quartermaster warehouse. There was no sign of Sergeant Blackshear, and he wondered what might have happened to him. He speculated that he had probably received his discharge and returned home in the States since he had last seen him.
There was no noticeable change in the railway station in Grabensheim since he had boarded his train in April. Two military policemen were still on duty outside the main entrance, and they eyed him as carefully as they had the first time he had arrived. He crossed the cobblestone town square and began the steep walk to the kaserne.
Ferguson was behind his desk in the orderly room when he reported in. The master sergeant looked up from the papers he was studying and smiled.
Colling grinned back and said briskly, “Technician Fifth Grade Colling reporting from temporary duty, Sergeant.”
“Welcome back, soldier,” replied Ferguson. “I was wondering whether I’d ever see you again.”
“Ah, you knew I’d be back, Sarge.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got my reassignment orders. I’m headed for the States on Monday, then to Panama. Colonel…I mean General Harrington, was able to pull some strings for me. A couple more days and you’d of missed me.”
“Should I report to Major Harris, too?” asked Colling.
“Major Harris went home over a month ago, right after you left. Major Vincent is the Battalion CO now. And yes, he wants to see you.”
Ferguson knocked on the door to the battalion commander’s office and, after hearing an “Enter,” led Colling into the room, standing aside so that Colling could come to attention directly in front of the major’s desk. Colling saluted, stated his name and announced that he was reporting.
Major Vincent returned the salute, picked up a file from a stack on his desk, and, appearing to ignore Colling, opened the folder and examined its contents. Colling estimated Vincent to be in his late thirties or early forties. The officer wore gold-rimmed glasses, was what might be described as “pudgy,” and had begun to lose his hair, leaving a widow’s peak. Out of the corner of his eye, Colling could see Ferguson standing beside him, expressionless and at ease, swaying slightly back and forth. After what seemed a long time, the major looked up and in a dry tone of voice said, “So you’re Collings.”
“Yessir. But that’s ‘Colling,’ sir, no ‘s’ on the end.”
Vincent noticed Sergeant Ferguson, and said, “You’re dismissed, Sergeant.” Ferguson snapped to attention, said, “Yessir,” and left the office.
The major turned his attention back to the file, told Colling to stand at ease, then commented, “You know, Collings, that this situation with you is the strangest I have ever experienced in my years in the Army.”
Colling ignored the second mispronunciation of his name and asked, “How so, sir?”
“Well, you take fourteen days’ furlough to visit Munich and the Bavarian recreation centers. Then the day before your furlough expires, Division gets a teletype advising that you have been ordered on TDY to some outfit called the ‘Paris Recreation Service Detachment.’ The orders are back-dated, effective on the fourth day of your furlough. The temporary duty assignment is open-ended, ‘Until further notice.’ I placed a call last month to Paris to attempt to contact the commanding officer of the ‘Paris Recreation Service Detachment,’ and the operator informed me that no such unit was listed. Where have you been, Corporal?”
“Paris, sir. I was in Garmisch when I met a tech sergeant who was on furlough from Paris. We got to talking, and he said he had heard what we were able to do with our PX and all. His CO, a major…I can’t remember his name right now, sir…was also in Garmisch, and the sergeant, his name was Smith, sir, took me over to meet him. The major asked me if I would be interested in going temporary duty to Paris. Well, sir, you can imagine. I jumped at the chance. Two days later, I went back with them, and the major said he would cut TDY orders for me and send them back here.”
“Was this major your commander in Paris?”
“No, sir,” replied Colling, mentally running through the list of names that Quarles had provided, “My CO was a Captain Whitehead. He was in charge of the detachment.”
“Where were you billeted?” asked Vincent.
Colling again envisioned Quarles’ list, “Pension Montrette, sir. It wasn’t a fancy place, but the old lady, Madame Bissonette, who ran it was nice.”
Major Vincent continued to eye Colling suspiciously. “You say you did some kind of PX work?”
“Yessir. I helped design the layout of snack bars and soda fountains for a couple of rec centers in Paris, and then trained the employees. The French people the Army hired had never seen anything like it, and it took awhile.”
Vincent sighed, looked directly at Colling, and said,“I’ve heard of your reputation, Corporal. Some of the officers and NCO’s have told me that you were known as a finagler with a knack for currying favor.”
Colling started to speak, but the major stopped him.
“I want to warn you, Corporal, that I am not as tolerant as others might have been.”
“Yessir,” said Colling.
“If I hear of you doing anything that is the least bit outside the rules, you will have to answer to me.”
“Yessir. Understood, sir.”
Vincent did not speak for a few moments, and Colling expected to be dismissed, but the major continued, “And one other thing…I received a call the day before yesterday from a Major General Reed at USAREUR headquarters in Heidelberg, recommending that you be promoted to Tech-4. Said it was for your ‘inestimable’ assistance.”
Colling was stunned, and could only say, “Sir?”
“Yes. The phone call was followed up by teletype yesterday. Yesterday was the Fourth of July, Corporal. I have never seen headquarters confirm a personnel action on a holiday.”
“Yessir,” replied Colling, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Much as I may have reservations, Corporal,” said Vincent, “I am not inclined to ignore the personal recommendation of a general officer. Sergeant Ferguson has the signed promotion orders on his desk. You are dismissed.”
Ferguson had a wide grin on his face when Colling came out of Major Vincent’s office.
“Well, kid, you made sergeant in a little over a year. Congratulations,” he said, handing Colling a mimeographed page that proclaimed him to have been advanced from technician fifth grade to technician fourth grade.
“Yeah, thanks, Sarge,” said Colling, still unable to fully comprehend it all.
“Let’s go over to the NCO Club and have a beer,” suggested Ferguson.
“I didn’t know we had an NCO Club.”
“Yep, and I can get us in even this early in the morning,” said Ferguson, and then shouted at the clerks in the next office that he was going to inspect the enlisted men’s quarters and would not be back for a couple of hours.
The Grabensheim Kaserne NCO Club was in the cellar under the PX. It was decorated like a Bavarian gasthof, complete with a row of the cut-off ends of three large beer barrels set in one wall. A German was washing glassware in the kitchen behind the bar. When he heard the door open, he came out to see who it was. He greeted Ferguson in accented English, and the sergeant introduced him to Colling as “Fritz.” Colling responded in German, and the man seemed delighted. At Ferguson’s request, he brought them two draft beers at the booth that the sergeant selected towards the back of the room.
As they sat sipping the beer, Ferguson brought Colling up to date on events at the kaserne. Major Harris, of course, had returned home to North Carolina. The Countess and her Wehrmacht colonel husband were apparently reconciled, or at least there was no sign of an impending split. Many of the battalion’s men had received either discharge or reassignment orders, and Ferguson guessed that Colling would not know most of the men that were now stationed at the kaserne. Ferguson ticked off the names of the soldiers who were still with the battalion, and Colling figured out that only “Snuffy” Smith, who was now a three-stripe sergeant, and Sergeant Dorfmann, who had worked with Zinsmann on the reconstruction of the barracks, were men he had known very well before he went on furlough. Dorfmann had re-enlisted and opted to remain in Germany because he had a German fräulein, and Ferguson suspected that he would marry the girl if and when the fraternization rule was rescinded.
Most of the surplus cigarettes were gone, sold by Ferguson on the German market for American Military marks, which the master sergeant had then converted into dollars and wired to his wife in Panama. Ferguson had set aside fifty cartons for Colling and stored them in a foot locker in Colling’s new quarters. The sergeant had moved Colling’s two wall lockers to another room behind the dispensary to make room for a staff sergeant named Purcell, a transfer from a tank outfit whom Vincent had appointed as non-commissioned-officer-in-charge of the Grabensheim medical detachment. Ferguson did not have a great deal of respect for Purcell, and vowed he would not let the man touch him if he became ill or were injured. There were two new PFC medics who seemed to be doing a decent job, despite Staff Sergeant Purcell’s inept supervision. Colling asked to what job he would be assigned, now that he had returned, and Ferguson told him that he did not know, but that Vincent had indicated that he would personally decide Colling’s assignment within the battalion. Ferguson advised him that he would have to report later in the day, as soon as he was settled into his quarters, and get his instructions from the Major.
With Harrington gone, a new commander had taken over at Regiment, Colonel Alphonse R. Brazenholm. Ferguson thought he was a pretty good officer; not as good as Colonel Harrington, in Ferguson’s opinion, but Brazenholm was a combat veteran, tough but fair. Vincent was another matter. He was a federalized State Guard officer who had been called up after Pearl Harbor. Ferguson was unsure, but had heard that the man had been an assistant manager in a department store in Ohio in civilian life. He had come in as a captain, and had been assigned as a corps staff officer from the beginning, in G-1, personnel. Ferguson estimated that Vincent had not been within twenty miles of the front lines in his career. The Major loved personnel files, and was in his element with the flow of men through the battalion, which had not abated since Colling was serving as battalion clerk. Vincent had decided to remain on active duty and make the Army a career, but Ferguson believed that the reduction-in-force that was continuing would result in the Major being transferred to reserve status.
As a matter of fact, Ferguson went on, the entire 40th Regiment was under-strength, and rumor had it that the 61st Division itself was to be de-activated; either by the end of the year, or Spring of 1947. If the Division were wrapped up, the 40th would probably be deactivated as well. The regiment had been brought out of mothballs on the eve of war in 1939, for the first time since the Civil War, and did not have a history or prestige that Ferguson thought would motivate the Pentagon to keep it on the active list. Major Vincent would be out in the cold when his command ceased to exist.
Colling wondered where he would be reassigned if the 40th were disbanded, and Ferguson told him not to worry about it. At best, he might be sent back to the States and maybe given an early discharge. Colling was uncertain as to whether he would welcome that, but he did admit to himself that a transfer Stateside would permit him to locate Elizabeth; and if he returned to civilian life, he could resume his education.
Ferguson swallowed the last of his beer and said, “We better be getting back to work. You got to get your stuff unpacked and find out where Vincent wants you to work, and I got to make my presence known elsewhere, otherwise the Major might tell my next CO that I was a gold-bricker. By the way, I got a stack of mail for you.”
As they stood up to leave, Ferguson commented, “We all got a pay raise on July One. T-5’s went from $66.00 a month to $90.00. We lost our $25.00 overseas pay, though, so that would have been a dollar less a month at your old grade. But since you go to T-4, I think that puts you at $100 per.”
Colling reflected that he had not drawn any pay since the end of March, and his pay account would have accumulated for three months. He wondered if Ferguson had noticed that while he had supposedly been in Paris on TDY, he had had no apparent need for money.
He easily found the room into which Ferguson told him he had moved his lockers. The padlocks on each of the wall lockers were in place. One was still filled with the surplus uniforms he had been selling, and while there was a jumble of some items in its bottom because it had been moved, everything appeared to be intact. His other locker was also in disorder, but he found nothing missing. The remainder of his cash, nearly two thousand dollars, was safe behind the false panel in the upper shelf. He added the money Quarles had given him to it.
Colling had straightened out both lockers before he noticed the extra footlocker in the room in addition to the one at the foot of his cot. It was not locked, and when Colling lifted its lid, he saw that it was filled with cartons of cigarettes. He closed the lid and reminded himself to buy another padlock.
The PX was closed when he tried the front door, so he used the back entrance. There was a PFC whom he did not recognize marking merchandise and shelving it.
“Sorry, Corporal, we’re closed,” said the PFC.
“I used to work here, Private,” responded Colling. “What’s your name?”
“Bolton.”
“Good, Bolton. I just got promoted to T-4, and I need some stripes.”
“You must be Colling,” replied Bolton.
“You got that right.”
“We hear a lot about you from some of the old guys. They call you ‘Dog Robber.’”
“Yeah, I guess some do. You got a lot of new merchandise in here now. Where are the stripes?”
Bolton showed him a box of technician-fourth-grade insignia, and Colling counted out several sets of the three chevrons surmounting a “T” that denoted his new rank.
As he paid him, the PFC said, “Sarge, if you don’t want to try and sew them on yourself, there’s a Kraut lady that will do it for a couple of marks each.”
“Thanks, Bolton. I’ll bring over my shirts and jackets to have it done. I think I’ll have to be the one to sew a set on what I’m wearing, though.”
Colling returned to his quarters and set about attaching the new stripes to his jacket and one shirt. When he was done, he went to the latrine and checked their appearance in the mirror. Satisfied, he returned to the orderly room. Ferguson was not there, and Colling asked the corporal on duty if he could see Major Vincent.
The major seemed surprised and slightly irritated that Colling had managed to sew on his new rank insignia so quickly.
“Technician Fourth Grade Colling reporting, sir,” said Colling, saluting.
“At ease, Sergeant,” replied Vincent. “What brings you here again?”
“Sergeant Ferguson said you were going to give me my assignment, sir.”
“Ah, yes, correct.” Major Vincent picked up Colling’s personnel file again and opened it. After perusing it for a moment or two, he asked, “I see that you were assigned as a medic, even though you had no training as such.”
“Correct, sir. They were short of medics, and I had some experience, so Dr. Lewisohn okay’ed me as a medic.”
“I see that. Captain Lewisohn has a very glowing letter in here about you. Says you are one of the best medical corpsmen he has seen.”
“I was unaware of that, sir.”
“I also see you served as battalion clerk, and were essent