He lacks the heroic mien -- steel forged in Camelot -- of central casting's great military strategists: Wellington, MacArthur, Cordesman. His stare, which can be ferocious, is undercut by a fretful brow; the small, almost gentle features are stranded in his moon of a face. And no fellow shaped like a nose tackle is going to cut a chic figure in those desert jammies. You look for John Wayne, and you find Jonathan Winters crossed with Willard Scott: a lunch- pail lug who should be shambling into the Cheers bar to a chorus of "Norm!" Norm? Is that any name for...
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