Victory and Honor

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “You can start, Major, first things first, by getting someone from your radio maintenance section familiar with the Collins 7.2 transceiver up here to assist my communications officer. The 7.2 in my Connie needs service.”

  Major Cronin looked confused. “Excuse me, sir . . . what do I call you?”

  “‘Sir’ will do just fine,” Frade said.

  “Sir, I’m a little confused. The Collins 7.2 is a fixed-station communications device. Are you sure that’s what you have in your aircraft?”

  “Trust the colonel, Major, when he says we have one in our airplane,” Stein said.

  “Yes, sir,” the major said, and then turned to the lieutenant. “Charley, why don’t you run over to the radio shack and get someone familiar with the 7.2 over here.”

  “Better yet, Lieutenant,” Stein said, “why don’t I go with you to the radio shack?”

  “Yes, sir,” the major and the lieutenant said in chorus.

  “All right, sir?” Stein asked.

  “Carry on, Stein,” Frade ordered.

  Von Wachtstein and Boltitz returned from the weather map.

  “Looks pretty good, Clete,” von Wachtstein announced in German. “A couple of minor storms to the south. The winds aloft will be on our tail.”

  “Danke schön,” Frade replied.

  Von Wachtstein and Boltitz then moved behind Frade and took up positions roughly like that of Parade Rest.

  The major and the lieutenant looked intently at them.

  “I presume you have been officially informed,” Frade said, “that the SAA Constellation is bound for Germany to relieve the Argentine diplomatic staff in Berlin.”

  “We’ve been expecting you, Colonel,” the major said.

  “Please do not use my rank,” Frade said.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “That mission of compassion and mercy, however, is not the only reason I and these members of my staff are going to Germany. The second mission is unknown, as is my association with the OSS, to the Argentine diplomats, and I wish it kept that way. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the major and the lieutenant again said together.

  “I wish to discuss the second mission with the officer, or officers, commanding the B-24 submarine hunting group. Is that one officer or two?”

  “Actually, sir, it’s four. In the wing, there are two antisubmarine groups here, and a third, the 480th, at Port Lyautey, in Morocco. Three group commanders, colonels, and the brigadier general who commands the wing, sir.”

  “The general is where?” Clete asked.

  “Here, sir. In his quarters.”

  “Let’s start with him. Would you get him on the phone, Major, offer my apologies for waking him up, and ask him to come down here?”

  “Yes, sir. And who do I say, sir, wishes to see him?”

  “Tell him anything you wish, so long as you don’t mention the OSS.”

  “Can I mention South American Airways?”

  “Why not?”

  [ONE]

  Val de Cans Airfield Belém do Pará, Brazil 0218 17 May 1945

  Brigadier General Robert G. Bendick, U.S. Army Air Forces, walked into the flight-planning room five minutes later, trailed by his aide-de-camp. He was a trim, intelligent-looking man in his midthirties; the aide looked like he had just finished high school.

  “Good morning,” General Bendick said. “I’m afraid my Spanish is awful.”

  “Not a problem, General,” Frade said. “I speak English. Thank you for coming so quickly. We’re a little pressed for time.”

  Frade handed him the spurious credentials.

  “Oh,” the general said.

  “I never showed you those, sir. This is an out-of-school meeting.”

  “To what end?”

  “We’re headed for Berlin to relieve the Argentine diplomatic staff there. The aircraft has been chartered by the Argentine Foreign Ministry.”

  “I saw the notification of that,” General Bendick said. “And?”

  “Before we get into ‘and,’ why don’t you tell me about the other Constellation on the tarmac?”

  “Before we get into ‘the other Constellation,’ why don’t you tell me about those Naval Aviator Wings you’re sporting?”

  Their eyes locked. Frade had a sudden epiphany.

  I am not going to get away with bullshitting this guy.

  So, what do I do now?

  “In another, happier life, I was a Marine fighter pilot,” Clete said.

  Bendick’s eyes remained on his.

  “Oh, really? And where exactly were you a Marine fighter pilot?”

  He doesn’t believe me.

  “They called it the Cactus Air Force, General.”

  “In another, happier life, I was a B-17 pilot,” General Bendick said. “On one memorable day, I was saved from winding up in the drink off Guadalcanal by three Marine Grumman F4F Wildcats of VMF-221. Half a dozen very skilled Zero pilots had already taken out two of my engines and most of my vertical stabilizer when the Marines showed up. After dealing with the Zeros—the Marine F4Fs shot two down and scattered the others—the Marines then led me to Guadalcanal.”

  He’s calling my bluff.

  And he didn’t just make up that yarn.

  “The name Dawkins mean anything to you?” General Bendick then asked.

  Clete nodded. “If the general is referring to Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, I had the privilege of being under his command.”

  “At Fighter One? VMF-221?”

  “Yes, sir,” Clete said.

  “You were then a what?”

  “A first lieutenant, sir.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m a lieutenant colonel, sir.”

  “So, what’s this, Colonel?” Bendick asked, holding up the spurious OSS credentials. “I never saw anything like this before. What’s an OSS area commander? And this makes you area commander of exactly what area?”

  “Argentina and Uruguay, primarily.”

  Bendick’s eyes showed he wasn’t satisfied with that answer.

  Bendick said: “Let’s go back down Memory Lane, Colonel. What did Colonel Dawkins’s officers call him?”

  “‘Sir,’” Clete blurted.

  Clete thought he saw the hint of a smile on Bendick’s lips.

  “And behind his back?”

  “‘The Dawk,’ sir.”

  “And so they did,” Bendick said, “something that would be known only to his officers.”

  He handed Frade the spurious OSS credentials.

  “We had been briefed, of course,” he said, “on using Henderson Field in an emergency. We had also been briefed on Fighter One, and told it was not suitable for emergency landings of B-17 aircraft. As I approached Guadalcanal, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I had neither the altitude nor the controls to make Henderson, so I put it down on Fighter One.

  “I was a pretty good B-17 pilot, but not good enough to land on only one main gear, so shortly thereafter I found myself sitting at the side of the runway with, thank God, all of my crew. We were watching my aircraft burn when a feisty tall drink of water showed up. He was wearing shorts and shoes—no shirt, no cap—and in each hand he had four of those little bottles of medicinal bourbon.”

  Bendick met Frade’s eyes. Frade nodded.

  Bendick went on: “I shall never forget what he said to me on that memorable occasion: ‘When we saw you coming in, son, the odds were ten-to-one that nobody was going to walk away from your landing. You do know this isn’t Henderson Field?’”

  “That sounds like The Dawk,” Clete said, smiling. “And fists full of medicinal bourbon bottles? Getting more than one little bottle from Colonel Dawkins meant he thought you had done good.”

  “So I later learned,” General Bendick said. “So, welcome, welcome to Val de Cans. What do I call you?”

  Colonel Dawkins, wherever you are, you have just saved my ass again.

  How many times does that make?

  “My name
is Cletus Frade. My friends call me Clete. I wish you would.”

  The general offered his hand. “Bob Bendick, Clete.”

  Clete, pointing to them as he did so, said, “Peter von Wachtstein, Karl Boltitz, Enrico Rodríguez. My commo guy, Siggie Stein, is already in your radio shack; we have a Collins 7.2 aboard that needs fixing.”

  “An airborne Collins 7.2?”

  “Siggie Stein is an amazing commo guy,” Clete said.

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Tell me about the other Connie.”

  “It’s classified Top Secret,” General Bendick replied.

  “Manhattan Project?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Excuse me, but are you saying ‘Excuse me’ because you don’t want to admit knowledge of the Manhattan Project?” Clete asked with a smile.

  “I never heard of it,” General Bendick said. “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you. But it’s the only thing I know that would justify classifying a passenger flight Top Secret.”

  General Bendick looked at Frade for a long moment.

  “How about a planeload of Secret Service agents bound for Frankfurt?” he asked finally.

  “Is that what it is?”

  Bendick nodded.

  “What would be so secret about that?” Clete asked.

  “President Truman going to Germany?”

  “I don’t think that’s very likely,” Clete said. “Why?”

  Bendick shrugged.

  “The Secret Service is under the Treasury Department,” Clete then said. “And the secretary of the Treasury suspects that Nazis are being smuggled out of Germany to Argentina.”

  “I know,” Bendick said.

  “You know that Nazis are being smuggled out of Germany, or that Morgenthau thinks they are?”

  “These Secret Service agents have been nosing around the base flashing their badges and asking my junior officers and enlisted men if they know anything about Nazis being smuggled through here. Or even of mysterious airplanes passing through here. They are even threatening them with what happens when you lie to a Secret Service agent.” He chuckled, and added: “I wonder what they’re going to think about your mysterious airplane.”

  “If they ask, what will they be told?”

  “Same that we were told. That it’s a charter flight to rescue Argentine diplomats from Germany. Unless . . .”

  “No. That’s fine. And it has the advantage of being the truth. Did these Secret Service people talk to you, tell you what they’re looking for?”

  “No. I must look like somebody who would smuggle Nazis.”

  “If they had asked you, General—”

  “I thought we were on a first-name basis.”

  “Sorry. Bob, if they had asked you . . .”

  “What would I have told them? The truth. I’ve heard the rumors, and I think there’s something to them, but I don’t have any personal knowledge, and my counterintelligence people haven’t come up with anything concrete.”

  “The rumors are true. One of my jobs is to try to stop fleeing Nazis trying to get to South America from getting there, or catch them. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. But before I get into that, how long has this planeload of Secret Service agents been here?”

  “About forty-eight hours. All they were supposed to do was take on fuel, but there was a message saying ‘delay departure until further notice.’”

  “Which conveniently provided time for their people to ask questions of your people.”

  “That thought ran through my mind. What the hell is that all about?”

  “I don’t know,” Clete said. “Maybe we’ll find out when we get to Germany. Let’s get back to the reason I wanted to see you. We have some pretty good intelligence that a number of German submarines are headed for Argentina. The number ranges from three we’re very sure about, to a fleet—as many as twenty-odd. A fleet seems unlikely but can’t be dismissed out of hand. The Nazis have a program called the Phoenix Project—”

  “That’s real?” Bendick asked.

  “I don’t know what you heard about it, so let me tell you what I know about it. Starting in 1943, the Nazis started sending money and things that can be easily converted to money—gold, diamonds, other precious stones, et cetera—to Argentina. The idea was to set up sanctuaries in Argentina, Paraguay, Uruguay, and Brazil to which senior officers could flee, both escaping the trials we plan for them and using their new home as a base from which they can rise, rested and with large amounts of money, phoenix-like, and keep National Socialism going. Or bring it back to life.”

  “That’s pretty much what I heard, but it sounded like the plot for a bad movie,” Bendick said.

  “They sent a lot of money—hundreds of millions of dollars—to Argentina, plus some senior SS officers to run the program. We’ve managed to stop a lot of it, but by no means all.”

  “What kind of senior SS officers?”

  “Himmler’s adjutant, for one. Actually, the Reichsführer-SS’s First Deputy Adjutant. SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg. He came by submarine.”

  “And this guy is already in Argentina?” Bendick asked incredulously.

  “Yeah, but he’s no longer a problem,” Clete said.

  “How so?”

  “He was taking a leak in the men’s room of a charming little hotel in the charming little village of San Martín de los Andes, when someone blew his brains all over the urinal with a Ballester-Molina—an Argentine copy of our .45.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know who did that, would you, Clete?”

  “Of course not,” Clete replied not very convincingly.

  “And what are the Argentines doing about all these Nazis running loose in Argentina? Looking the other way?”

  “You ever hear that money talks, Bob?”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “There is also an element—perfectly serious people—who feel the Nazis were a Christian bulwark against the Communist Antichrist. Unfortunately, to some odd degree, I’m afraid they may be right.”

  “You think the Communists are going to be a threat?”

  It took Clete a moment to consider the wisdom of what he wanted to say. In the end, he decided to say it.

  “I’m reliably informed that J. Edgar Hoover thinks they’re the new enemy.”

  “And you agree with Hoover?”

  “Yeah, I guess I do. I never was able to regard Stalin as Friendly Uncle Joe, and I know for a fact the Russians are trying very hard to break into the . . . one of our most important secrets.”

  “Which secret would that be?”

  “Sorry, I just can’t tell you.”

  “Which brings us back, I suppose, to why you wanted to see me.”

  “I don’t know this for sure, but I have the feeling that just as soon as I get to Germany, there will be a meeting about the submarines headed this way.”

  “A meeting between whom?” Bendick asked.

  “It will be under Eisenhower—probably under his G-2—but it won’t all be under SHAEF. Someone from General Marshall’s staff will probably be there, and certainly someone from Army Intelligence. And the Office of Naval Intelligence. And, of course, the OSS. And probably, come to think of it, the Secret Service agents here.”

  Clete then said: “Whatever intelligence is available about the German submarines will be presented, discussed, and it will be agreed that something has to be done about them. And, finally, it will be decided who exactly will have to do something about them.

  “The one thing senior brass hates to do is take on a mission that will probably end in failure. Or about which they know very little, which would cause them to fail. So they will look around for someone who is an expert in the area of dealing with German submarines in South America. There are only two people who meet that criterion, Bob. You and me.”

  “I think I know where you’re going, Clete,” Bendick said, “but there is one flaw in your argument. I don’t hav
e any idea how to find these German submarines.”

  “You and I have something else in common,” Frade said. “If we can’t find the submarines, that’s not the fault of G-2, or Naval Intelligence—it’s our fault. ‘What do you expect? While we’ve been fighting the Wehrmacht across Europe, Bendick and Frade have been sitting in beautiful South America drinking rum and Coca-Cola and chasing senoritas.’”

  “Do you know how many aircraft we’ve lost over the South Atlantic?” Bendick asked.

  “How many were actually shot down?”

  “I take your point,” Bendick said after a moment.

  “I think they call that ‘pilot error,’” Clete said. “You don’t get no Air Medals or Distinguished Flying Crosses for pilot error.”

  Bendick shook his head.

  “Here’s how I see it,” Frade went on. “OSS will be given the mission, and your wing will be among our many assets.”

  “As I said, this particular asset doesn’t have a clue where to look for these submarines.”

  “Maybe we can give you a little help there. Out of school.”

  “Out of school? I don’t understand.”

  “I have some intel that I know is reliable, and when we get to Germany and start to talk to the crews of U-boats, I think we’re going to have some more intel, maybe a good deal more. The problem is I can’t tell G-2, or Naval Intelligence, and certainly not the Secret Service about it, because they will want to know where it came from, and I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” Bendick asked almost automatically, and then, before Frade had a chance to answer, said, “You have spies in Germany, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Not spies, General,” Boltitz offered. “One is an anti-Nazi former U-boat officer.”

  Bendick looked at Boltitz, then back at Frade. “And you’re going to see this anti-Nazi U-boat officer in Germany? Is that what you’re saying? And he’s going to help you find these submarines?”

  “What this anti-Nazi U-boat officer is going to do, Bob, is tell you all he knows about how U-boat crews are trained to cross the South Atlantic, what courses they followed in the past and presumably will follow now, their schedules of on-the-surface and submerged operations—that sort of thing. And then, when we get to Germany, he’ll see what he can find out from U-boat crews now in POW cages.”