 by Dr. Jeffrey Lant. Author's program note. In 1961 "How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying" hit Broadway. Composed by Frank Loesser, it was clever, sophisticated, sardonic, sarcastic, a tale of shrewd moves and derring-do, back stabbing, plausible lies and downright devilry presided over by sweet, conniving J. Pierrepont ('Ponty') Finch, the role that made Robert Morse and his astonishing grin, rich with impertinence and opportunities, a legend. The scene I've got in mind now features the arrival of Miss Hedy LaRue. She's come to claim the secretarial position the big boss has promised, though she has no credentials but her va-va-va-voom package ("39-22-38"), artfully displayed for maximum effect in sky high heels, skin-tight dress leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, and a mincing walk that gives her plenty of time to strut her oh-so-eye-catching stuff. Of course everything in the office stops for her unforgettable entrance forcing personnel manager Mr. Bratt to admonish all by singing: "A secretary is not a toy/No, my boy, not a toy./So do not go jumping for joy, boy/ A secretary is not.../A secretary is not.../ A secretary is not a toy.." Just one itsy-bitsy change in these lyrics makes this the perfect tune for this article. Simply change "secretary" to "officer", and you have just the right lyrics. Now go to any search engine and sing out "An officer is not a toy/No, my boy, not a toy/ To fondle and dandle and playfully handle/ In search of some puerile joy/No, an officer is not/Definitely not a toy." Apparently U.S. Army Brigadier General Jeffrey Sinclair, now known worldwide as "Poppa Panda Sexy Pants", forgot this tune and its sensible advice... and now he's paying the price, not least in the wanton and bounteous ridicule he has engendered for himself, his service, his appalled colleagues, and the Great Republic itself which is today drooping in disbelief and dismay (whilst being unable to suppress one belly laugh after another.) The (alleged) (and utterly riveting) facts. Date line Fort Bragg, North Carolina. At this very moment a military courthouse here is packed daily with discriminating and fastidious listeners who all made the right decision: that the story being spun here is worth all the daytime soaps put together... with the added benefit that what is being presented is absolutely true, so help me God. Picture the scene. For only the third time in half a century, one of the elect, a bona fide Army general arrayed in the latest macho chic, capped by fetching raspberry Ranger beret that Prince liked so much, stands accused of... and here the list is long, abashing, fascinating, appalling, galling, disgraceful, humorous, scatological, vulgar, unexpected, scandalous, disgusting, every word awaited, delicious, every ear cocked so not even a single syllable, much less vital word, is missed. The charges. Long and malodorous, the charges boiled down to these essentials: forcible sodomy, adultery, abusing his command authority by sleeping with a subordinate officer. The army disapproves of such intimacy as inimical to the proper hierarchy required. It is, after all, difficult to command someone of lower rank who may (and just minutes before) been giving orders to you. This isn't all... It is further claimed, in the resonant sonority which marks these matters as urgent, pressing, of the highest import, that General Sinclair had "inappropriate" communications with... count 'em... three other female officers. Since these canaries have begun to sing, we understand what they did and where they did it... but I disagree with prosecutors who allege inappropriate behavior; I say rank hath its privileges... though perhaps that cuddly charmer, General Poppa Panda, overdid it a tad. Judge for yourself... Consider the matter of where General Sinclair and his lucky subordinate, a female captain 17years his junior, had sex. Every active participant knows that variety is the spice of life. The general and his moll didn't just know it; they lived it. During a pretrial hearing the woman testified to a staggering array of locations which ensured their love was a many splendored thing... of an encounter in the general's quarters in Iraq; in a car in a German parking lot (rather uncomfortable but perhaps hotter for that); in plain sight on a hotel balcony in Arizona (probably by now included in their holiday brochures by the quick witted members of the Chamber of Commerce); even in her cramped office in Afghanistan. I rather get the picture they determined their next rendezvous by throwing darts at a map. Kinky but enthralling. Bumpy ride. Sadly all was not well in the land of concupiscence and amorous agility. For one thing the couple fought frequently... epic battles in the eternal war between the sexes. Needless to say, subordinates began to whisper the increasingly strident and sordid details to each other; each new installment followed eagerly and by ever growing numbers of service personnel. Of course everyone and his brother remained scrupulously silent to authority figures. This was rather difficult because both the general and his captain seem to have made little if any effort to keep their torrid relations private. People knew. People talked. People then waited breathlessly wondering "what next?". What Next? Well, prosecutors charge that on at least two occasions, their mobile international relationship turned violent and he allegedly forced her to perform oral sex. Oh, and threatened to kill her if she ever told his long- suffering wife about the affair. Life with General Sinclair was never dull, though he clearly didn't believe in Ann Lander's advice, to be off with the old love, before one begins with the new. No, this was not Sinclair's way. His view was more like the sultans of old, who had a harem to supply every need. Thus, the dexterous Sinclair juggled his wife, his captain, and another one, two or even three additional playmates, all at a time when our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan needed (so one may surmise) his expertise. He proved again the validity of the old adage, if you want something done, give it to the busiest person you know. But the very desirability and brute charisma of the man ensured problems that defied facile solutions. His captain, the one who bestowed on the general the cute name that will accompany him forever -- "Poppa Panda Sexy Pants" -- was of a jealous disposition. She e-mailed another of his loves this pointed message, "I hope you don't think you're the only girl he's been sleeping with." My wonder is that General Sinclair got any sleep at all; his services so often required by so many.... As was all proven by the smoking gun in this case, the gun with the unequalled ability to bring down not merely M. le general Sinclair, but anyone else who has written an indiscrete e-mail, which is probably every single person on Earth. Sinclair, his captain, and his many other loves would in the pre-e-mail days now gone forever have cavorted, fornicated and fought with virtual impunity, thus getting away with outraging common sense and military law. Evidence would have been hard to find, might be attributable to gossip and hear-say and thus inadmissible and so the serious matter minimized and swept under the rug, saving general, service, mistresses, family et al, a scandal aborted. Those days, however, are gone forever.... although virtually all e-mail users don't act like it. Instead, minute by instant communication minute, they commit their most private thoughts, desires, wishes, and fantasies to it... thereby ensuring one embarrassing, abashing, titillating, and open-and-shut case after another. And of course we, the people, just cannot get enough of this carrion, filthy, disgusting, degrading, demeaning, a measure of how far we have fallen, how far we must go in our eternal struggle to achieve perfection. E-mail by revealing the principals in the case at their most candid, unguarded and self revealing ensured their own demise, for you see e-mail is eternal. The minute the writer hits the send key, every single hasty word, every single thoughtless sentence, and every single smutty paragraph belongs to the world. Thus is one titan after another hoist on their own petard as their most private thoughts, including the dirtiest of laundry, is aired... as it is now most assuredly being aired in this sordid business, so odoriferous and affronting and, thanks to e-mail, proven. Under these circumstances, with so much irrefutable evidence so instantly and abundantly at hand, the prosecutors case was relatively easy to make. It relies on the tearful two-hour confession the captain made in the office of Major General James Huggins, then the commander of the 82d Airborne Division and leader of all US forces in southern Afghanistan. Whilst General Sinclair was otherwise engaged, she (name not yet announced) rifled through his e-mails, thereby providing a complete picture of his sexual triumphs and myriad infidelities. Since even hell knows no fury like a woman scorned, the outcome (sustained, remember, by copious, flagrant e-mails) was never in doubt. The prosecutors, anxious to pin the tail on the donkey, gave her immunity, the better to bolster their case against him. He'll be convicted, with at least some time in the brig inevitable. His attorneys, realizing the weakness of their rebuttal, have already conceded that Poppa Panda did have an affair with his accuser but denied everything else. It's not good enough to save his much admired skin but it will have to do. Court-martial is inevitable... as anyone familiar with "How To Succeed in Business..." could have told him. "It happened to Charlie McCoy, boy/ They fired him like a shot/ The day the fellow forgot/an officer is not a toy." |
