***
The Voroshilov General Staff Academy was a passport to the highest positions in the armed forces. It was often a restful assignment for officers who’d completed arduous tours, especially in combat. But it was also a place to study war seriously and to make connections with other officers. And also with the faculty.
In late August, Suslov took the train from Tula to Moscow for the last time and checked into the officers’ hostel at Voroshilov before registering and selecting his classes. One in particular caught his eye. The American Way of War, taught by a CC Cooper, which was definitely not a Russian name. Advanced written and spoken English required. He checked the professor’s brief bio and found him to be a retired American Army colonel with a doctorate in sociology. Interesting combination. He paused a moment before writing it into his schedule. Then he shrugged. What’s a third American when you’re already in love with one and consider another, a reporter for the Washington Post, to be a good friend? Perhaps they could all get together sometime and he could listen to them speak to each other about things they might not tell him separately. That could be interesting.
He didn’t know what he was expecting the first day of class, 1 September, the traditional beginning of the academic year, as he sat in the seminar room with a dozen other officers, awaiting the American. One colonel wondered, if this man was an exchange professor, what had Russia traded for him and how soon could they get it back? Another muttered that if this American gave them any of that How we won the Cold War nonsense, everyone should stand together and leave. Suslov said nothing.
CC Cooper made his entrance. And their world changed perceptibly.
Cooper was a small man, very wiry and fit, with snow white hair and blue eyes that were as piercingly intense as Olivia’s, but with a nearly perpetual twinkle in them. He wore neatly pressed khakis, a blue blazer, white shirt, striped tie. He saw no reason to mention to the class that he’d acquired his taste in clothes on 17 April 1955, as a college student who needed to know what to wear and had, therefore, bought a book and two magazines on the latest prep school fashions. His tastes had not changed since and he was now on Blue Blazer #7, although he still had and could fit into Blue Blazers #1 through #6. It was enough that the class understood him to dress like the typical rich American of good breeding and conservative taste. The cowboy boots and hippie glasses could come later.
Cooper took his place at the head of the table, opened his briefcase, and began passing out the requisite forms and syllabi. He scanned the officers, some clearly Slavic, others Mongol, men in uniforms laden with medals or heavy with ribbons. Even two years ago, this would not have been possible. Now he was glad that it was.
His eyes went around the table, holding each man for a second or two. He did not smile. He had read on the plane that Russians looked you in the eye and rarely smiled at you or expected you to smile at them. Smiles were a sign of approval, and Russians thought Americans who went through Russia indiscriminately smiling at strangers were, to put it politely, mentally defective. Cooper couldn’t really disagree with that evaluation. He’d also read that when Russians liked you, they liked you. Of course, if they didn’t, they didn’t.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said after a moment.
The class nodded in silent greeting.
“My name is CC Cooper. Most people call me CC. Colonel is also acceptable. Please do not call me Doctor. I understand that the Russian doctorate is far more rigorous than the American and I do not believe in claiming honors I do not fully deserve.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, keeping his language and grammar simple, then started to warm.
“This course is entitled, The American Way of War. It is so called because that is the course I have been asked to teach. The title derives from a well-read book by a good American military historian. I shall now teach you The American Way of War.” He stared hard at his students. “It is stupid, unimaginative—the lazy way of a rich nation that substitutes things for men and things for intellect and things for strategy and requires us all to pretend that we have not killed and injured millions of civilians and other innocents as a result. There. I have just taught you The American Way of War.”
The Russians looked at each other, amazed.
“Now,” CC Cooper went on, ramping up a bit, “I shall teach you The Other American Way of War. This has nothing to do with the Pentagon, whose main business is getting and spending money, not war. It has nothing to do with the latest technologies or with much of technology at all. It has nothing to do with the 1991 Gulf War, fought at our leisure against one of the most incompetent, most obliging, most upgefuckt foes in history.” For the first time, a student smiled. “It has nothing to do with…” he sent his eyes around the table again, “…with the preposterous notion that the United States somehow ‘won’ the Cold War, as though everything that happens in the world is either caused by us or doesn’t matter unless and until we say it does. No, gentlemen. The Other American Way of War derives from four centuries of fighting our Native Americans across three thousand miles of forest, desert, plain and everything else, especially in my native state of Kentucky, where the ladies are fast, the horses are smooth, the livin’ is slow, and the bourbon magnificent. It has to do with how we fought most of our American Revolution against the British. It has to do with certain activities before, during and after our Civil War that few Americans are prepared to acknowledge, let alone understand. It derives from our experiences in counter-insurgency, starting with our support for a bunch of Cuban terrorists in the 1890s, our struggles in the Philippines in the early 20th century, our endless involvements in Latin America, and our subsequent ventures during World War II and thereafter.”
He paused. “And it has everything, I say again, everything to do with the wars you gentlemen have fought in Afghanistan and Chechnya, with the wars that lie before you…and with the wars that my country will, sooner or later, have to fight.
“May we all prevail. If at all possible, together.”
Cooper paused and looked around. Every man looked straight back at him. Some seemed to be sitting at attention.
“I have never taught a course like this before. To a significant extent, I’m making this up as I go along. So I will not give grades unless I must. If so, you will all get A’s, or whatever your mark is for ‘excellent’, so long as you participate fully. You will not be penalized for my shortcomings. I’m sure you’ve had that experience before and will again, but not in my classroom.” A few mouths started twitching into hard smiles. Yes, they’d had that experience.
“I have not brought with me my full official biography. I gather, to judge by the notation on the course offering, that the Academy has not received a copy, either. However, it is important for you to know who this man in front of you is, who will be taking your time these next few months. I am a retired colonel of infantry in the US Army. I grew up on a hardscrabble farm in Kentucky. In 1949, I enlisted in the Army and for the first time in my life, had more than one pair of shoes and ate three meals a day. I spent two years in Korea as a rifleman, squad leader, and platoon sergeant. My decorations from that war include my first Distinguished Service Cross, my first Silver Star and my first of four Purple Hearts, which we give for wounds in battle. Our highest award for valor is the Medal of Honor, equivalent to the Hero of the Soviet Union. I see some of those here in this room, I think.” Nods. “But the ribbon is now different, not the red of the former Union, but the white, red and blue of the Russian Federation, am I also correct?” More nods.
“After the Medal of Honor, in descending order, we have the Distinguished Service Cross, the Silver Star, and the Bronze Star with V device for valor. These are combat awards. This may give you a sense of your own equivalents. I am sorry that I do not understand your decorations yet. I’m sure you will teach me. I also hold several non-combat decorations, the kind given to majors and colonels who manage to stay out of trouble for six consecutive months.
“I served three tours
in Vietnam, one as a battalion commander, one as a division operations officer and brigade commander, one—it grieves me to relate—as a Saigon staff officer, tasked with making sure that, in the event anything went right, the proper people were punished. I had additional duties with an intimate little outfit known as the Studies and Observations Group. We studied and observed. In Vietnam, I was awarded my second Distinguished Service Cross, two more Silver Stars, a Bronze Star, and acquired three more Purple Hearts. After Korea and Vietnam, I entered real combat, first as a professor of military science, commanding an Army reserve officer training program on a college campus filled with vicious, violent radicals who regularly plotted my death, and that was only the faculty. Fortunately, I wore them down.”
A few more smiles, a little larger.
“My final experience in combat came at the Pentagon, when I refused to write any more glowing reports for useless, over-priced weapons, so that Congress would spend more money and the arms makers would be kept fat and happy. Having told it like it was once too often, I was given to understand that my services would not be missed, should I choose to retire. I did, and for the past six years have been a civilian on the faculty of the US Army War College at Carlisle Barracks in Pennsylvania, a place where future generals go to sleep, play golf, and learn the latest fashionable nonsense in preparation for their next assignments at the Pentagon.
“I’m a widower, sadly, no children, also sadly. I live in the hostel with many of you, in the visiting faculty flat. I understand that most of you drink vodka, which I do not, being of not so sturdy a constitution anymore. As I am from Kentucky, I prefer Kentucky bourbon whiskey, which comes in many flavors and brands, some better known than others. I have embassy commissary privileges, which means an endless supply that I’m happy to share. Please consider it part of your course work.”
Some grins, full of metal teeth.
“My Russian is limited. In truth, I have none. I am sometimes able to pronounce a word when it is spelled out in English, but hope to move on to real Russian shortly. I have, however, mastered a few words from a phrase book that I studied on the flight over, to get me started on an important undertaking. As I am a widower, I have no problem stating that if any of you gentlemen know a nice zakuska my age, for me to practice my Russian with and perhaps share other activities, of course, I will be grateful.”
Dead silence and a table of students looking at each other. CC Cooper hesitated. Then, after some seconds, one officer spoke up. “We will not procure for you. Meeting women is your task. I believe the word you seek is babushka, not zakuska. However, if you really want a sixty-five year old appetizer, we will help you find one.”
Real smiles and laughter all around. CC Cooper felt himself blushing hard, then joined them in their laughter. They were his. And he was theirs.