Victory and Honor hb-6

by W. E. B Griffin

  What the hell is that?

  He shot down seven German airplanes and a convertible?

  The pilot was holding up a piece of cardboard with numbers lettered on it with a grease pencil.

  Clete tuned the radio to the frequency on the piece of cardboard.

  He keyed the microphone: “Hello, there, Little Brother. You’re our welcoming committee?”

  “Constellation aircraft, make an immediate, repeat, immediate one-hundred-eighty-degree turn to the right, maintaining altitude.”

  “Why should we do that?”

  “Because I said so, goddammit! Commence one-eighty now!”

  “Do it, Peter,” Clete ordered.

  Von Wachtstein cranked the yoke hard to the right.

  “If one of our diplomats was taking a leak,” Clete said, “he just pissed all over the wall. Or himself.”

  “Constellation, maintain course and altitude.”

  “Little Brother, could you point us toward the Frankfurt Air Base? And give me the tower frequency?”

  “You are on a course for Rhein-Main,” the P-38 pilot announced. “Do not deviate from this course.”

  “And the tower frequency?”

  The P-38 pilot gave it.

  “Frankfurt Rhein-Main, this is South American Double Zero Four.”

  “South American Double Zero Four, Rhein-Main. Be advised that there is a flight of four P-38 aircraft in your vicinity. They will guide you to the field. Begin descent to three thousand now.”

  “South American Double Zero Four commencing descent to three thousand.”

  There was a four-lane divided highway running close to the airport. Two lanes were empty, save for a few trucks and Jeeps. The other two were crowded as far south as Clete could see with lines of gray-uniformed soldiers.

  “What the hell is that?” Clete asked.

  “The Frankfurt/Heidelberg autobahn,” von Wachtstein said.

  “I meant the soldiers.”

  “Prisoners, I suppose, being marched to POW compounds.”

  The runway was clear, but down its length were half a dozen obviously freshly and hurriedly repaired bomb craters. There were crashed or abandoned German aircraft all over the field.

  Two U.S. Army bulldozers were pushing damaged aircraft away from the grassy area next to the runway, moving them into a pile.

  As von Wachtstein completed the landing roll and then stopped, waiting for the promised FOLLOW ME vehicle to show up, he started pointing at various damaged aircraft and softly reported:

  “That’s a Focke-Wulf Fw-190. Good fighter. I used to have a squadron of them—

  “That’s a Messerschmitt Bf-109. I also used to have a squadron of them—

  “The one with three engines, the transport, is a Junkers Ju-52. We called them ‘Tante Ju,’ for Auntie Ju. Not much like the Connie, is it?—

  “My God, there’s a Messerschmitt Me-323 Gigant!”

  Clete then said, “There’s the FOLLOW ME,” as a Jeep with black-and-white checkered flags flying from its backseat drove onto the runway in front of them.

  It led the Ciudad de Rosario down taxiways, on either side of which were still more abandoned Luftwaffe aircraft—some of them looking completely intact and ready to fly—to what was left of a three-story, concrete-block building.

  There was a wooden sign: WELCOME TO RHEIN-MAIN AIR BASE.

  “And there’s our welcoming party,” Clete said.

  “And look what somebody’s driving,” von Wachtstein said.

  “I’ll be goddamned,” Clete said.

  There were ten vehicles waiting for them. Two buses—German ones, obviously just requisitioned from the fallen enemy—two U.S. Army six-by-six trucks, two three-quarter-ton weapons carriers, and three Chevrolet staff cars. Plus, parked a short distance from them, a Horch convertible sedan identical to the one at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, except this one was entirely black.

  Leaning against the door was a tall, startlingly handsome U.S. Army officer, a yellow scarf around his neck. His sharply creased trousers were tucked into a pair of highly shined boots of a type Clete had never seen before. He carried a 1911-A1 Colt .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol in a shoulder holster. The eagles of a full colonel were pinned to his epaulets and the triangular insignia of an armored division was sewn onto his sleeve.

  “Why do I think he’s in charge?” von Wachtstein asked.

  “Because he looks like General Patton?” Clete replied.

  “Mi coronel, I think this is one of the times you should wear your SAA uniform,” von Wachtstein said as a truck-mounted stairway was being backed up to the Connie’s passenger door.

  There was another full bull colonel waiting for them when Clete, the last to debark, jumped to the ground from the bed of the stair truck. He saw that the last of their passengers was boarding one of the buses and that their luggage was being loaded onto one of the six-by-six trucks by soldiers.

  The rest of the crew—all the pilots but Gonzalo Delgano—plus both stewards, and even Enrico Rodríguez, were being loaded onto one of the three-quarter-ton trucks.

  The colonel waiting for them was short and pudgy. He wore glasses. His uniform, which had the flaming sword insignia of SHAEF on the sleeve, needed pressing.

  Clete thought he and the other colonel, who was still leaning on the Horch, looked as if they were in different armies.

  “Welcome to Germany,” the pudgy colonel said in flawless Spanish. “My name is Colonel Albert Stevens, and at the moment, I’m the senior officer of SHAEF Military Government in Frankfurt. SHAEF has just begun moving from France into the I.G. Farben building. I’ve been assigned to look after you. And you are, sir?”

  “Gonzalo Delgano, mi coronel. I am chief pilot of SAA.”

  The colonel offered his hand, then looked at Clete and von Wachtstein.

  “I am Captain Frade,” Clete said, “and this is Captain von Wachtstein.”

  “Von Wachtstein?” Colonel Stevens said. “That sounds pretty German.”

  “There are a great many Germans in Argentina, Colonel,” Peter said.

  “Well, you won’t be flying to Berlin today. The Russians are being difficult. We’re working on the problem, and by tomorrow I’m sure everything will be settled. So, what we’re going to do is take your passengers into Frankfurt, to the Park Hotel, which is near the railroad station. Because there’s just not room for everybody at the Park, we’re going to put your crew up here, in what used to be the Luftwaffe officers’ quarters. There’s a mess hall—not fancy, but adequate—and I think you’ll be comfortable.

  “We’ll leave your aircraft right where it is and service it, and of course place it under guard. I recommend that you not leave the air base. That seems to cover everything. Is there something you need?”

  “We’ve got fresh meat aboard,” Frade said. “We’re going to need several hundred pounds of ice to keep it from going bad.”

  “That may pose a problem,” Colonel Stevens said.

  “Which I’m sure you can solve, Colonel,” the natty colonel suddenly said.

  Frade had not seen him walk up. Now that the natty colonel was standing beside Colonel Stevens, their sartorial difference was even more striking. And Frade now saw that the natty colonel’s uniform had pinned to the breast parachutist’s wings with three stars on them.

  “I think the Argentine diplomats have been counting on their countrymen bringing them some decent meat, don’t you?” the natty colonel went on.

  “You think it’s important obviously,” Colonel Stevens said, his tone making it clear he had just received an order he didn’t like.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then we’ll get some ice,” Colonel Stevens said.

  “Thank you,” the natty colonel said, and started to walk back to the Horch.

  Who the hell is this guy? Frade wondered, then decided that it was a question an SAA captain should not ask.

  “If you’ll get into the three-quarter, gentlemen,” Colonel Stevens said,
“you’ll be taken to your quarters. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  [THREE]

  The Luftwaffe officers’ quarters building was half destroyed, but the rooms to which an Air Forces sergeant took them were just about intact, except all the windows and the mirrors in the bathrooms were cracked or missing.

  Frade had just sat on his bed—there were no chairs—when the natty colonel walked in.

  The colonel greeted him: “I love your uniform, Captain—or should I say ‘Colonel’?—it looks like something General Patton would design.”

  He put out his right hand.

  His left hand held a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch scotch whiskey.

  As Frade shook hands, he was reminded of the story General Bendick had told about The Dawk showing up at Fighter One with two fistfuls of medicinal bourbon bottles.

  “Sir, who are you?”

  “Bob Mattingly, Colonel. We both work for Allen Dulles. And to set the ambience for our relationship, when no one senior to me is around, you may call me Bob. And with your permission, I will call you Clete.”

  “Fine,” Frade said. “Bob, did you think of glasses to go with the scotch?”

  “As a member of Oh, So Social, how could I forget a social amenity like that? The Air Forces sergeant who brought you here is getting us some as we speak.”

  “Where’d you get the Horch, Bob?”

  “The what? Oh, the car. It belongs to the Prince of Hesse. I pressed it into service. Magnificent machine, but I learned on my way here that it won’t go faster than fifty. Fifty kilometers. I finally decided it’s a parade car, designed to pass through hordes of screaming Nazis”—he paused and mockingly mimed Nazis giving the straight-armed salute—“but not designed to be used on the road.”

  Clete laughed.

  He said: “You’ve got it in low range, four-wheel drive. There’s a lever on the floor, next to the gearshift.”

  “You know the car?”

  “As a fellow member of Oh, So Social, I of course know everything about such social amenities as fine motorcars.”

  Enrico Rodríguez stuck his head in the doorway. Frade motioned for him to come in. He did, followed by Stein, Boltitz, von Wachtstein, and Delgano.

  “I know who you are, Sergeant Major,” Mattingly said in fluent Spanish. “Mr. Dulles told me Colonel Frade is never far from a man with a shotgun looking for someone to shoot.”

  “A sus órdenes, mi coronel,” Rodríguez said.

  “But these gentlemen—”

  “SAA’s chief pilot, Gonzalo Delgano,” Frade said, pointing, “who is also a colonel in the Bureau of Internal Security. Karl Boltitz, former—”

  “Trusted associate of Admiral Canaris,” Mattingly interrupted. “We’re working on finding your father, Kapitän. The last word we have is that he’s not dead. We just don’t know where he is.”

  “Thank you,” Boltitz said.

  “And that must make you Major von Wachtstein?” Mattingly asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Frade added: “And that’s Siggie Stein, our commo expert.”

  Stein and Mattingly were shaking hands when the Air Forces sergeant appeared with a tray of glasses.

  Mattingly was pouring generous drinks into them when another face appeared at the door.

  It was an Air Forces lieutenant colonel. He wore a pink Ike jacket, pink trousers, a battered cap with a crushed crown, and half Wellington boots. A certain swagger—and the way he wore his uniform cap—identified him as a fighter pilot. He didn’t look as if he was old enough to vote, and in fact had been eligible to do so for only the past three weeks.

  “And who, Colonel, might you be?” Colonel Mattingly inquired.

  “My name is Dooley,” the very young officer said.

  “Archer C. Dooley, commanding the 26th Fighter Group?” Mattingly inquired.

  “Deputy commander,” Dooley corrected him. “How did you know that?”

  “As Colonel Frade and I were just discussing, Colonel, we are members of an organization that knows everything. Sergeant, does that telephone communicate?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you see if you can get General Halebury on it for me?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Air Forces sergeant said.

  “Colonel, what—”

  “Colonel Dooley,” Mattingly interrupted him, “patience is a virtue right up there with chastity. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”

  He took the telephone the Air Forces sergeant was holding out to him.

  “Bob Mattingly, General,” he said into it. “I have Colonel Dooley with me. I wonder if you could give the colonel his marching orders over the telephone?” He paused to listen, then added, “Thank you, sir. Doing so will save a good deal of time.”

  He handed the telephone to Dooley.

  “Colonel Dooley, sir,” Dooley said, then listened for no more than thirty seconds and concluded the conversation: “Yes, sir, that’s perfectly clear.”

  Then he took the handset from his ear and looked at it.

  “And what did General Halebury have to say, Colonel Dooley?” Mattingly asked.

  “He said that until I hear differently from either you or him, I am assigned to you; that I am to do whatever I’m ordered to do and not ask questions.”

  “With a few minor exceptions, that’s it. How did you come here, Colonel? How, not why?”

  “I came in a staff car, if that’s what you mean, sir.”

  “Which has a driver? Or did you drive it yourself?”

  “I’ve got a driver. There’s a group regulation that says majors and above have to have a driver.”

  “And what kind of a staff car is it, Colonel?”

  “A requisitioned Mercedes—a convertible sedan.”

  “And is it adequately fueled for a round-trip to a destination some forty miles from here?”

  “I just filled it up, sir.”

  “Sergeant, if you would be good enough to pour Colonel Dooley a drink, you may then leave us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the sergeant was gone, Mattingly said, “Now, Colonel, you may tell us why you came here.”

  Dooley looked at the drink in his hand.

  “Can I ask what’s going on around here, Colonel?”

  Mattingly nodded. “After you tell us why you came here.”

  “I wanted to see who was flying that Argentine Connie that I kept from flying into East Germany,” Dooley said.

  “That was you in the P-38?” Frade said.

  “You were flying the Constellation?” Dooley replied.

  “He was,” Clete said, pointing at von Wachtstein.

  “‘East Germany’?” von Wachtstein parroted. “What’s that?”

  “Technically, it is the Soviet zone of occupied Germany,” Mattingly said.

  “And in another couple of minutes,” Dooley said, “you’d have been over it, Captain—and probably got your ass shot down.”

  “By the Russians?” von Wachtstein asked.

  “Why would the Russians shoot down an unarmed Argentine passenger aircraft?” Siggie Stein asked.

  “Maybe they don’t like Argentines,” Frade offered.

  “Unfortunately, Clete,” Mattingly said, “there is a slight but real chance—one-in-three or -four, I would judge—that you would’ve been taken under fire by Russian aircraft had not Colonel Dooley here caused you to alter course. Or have been ordered—this is my most likely scenario—to land at Leipzig and interned. You were east of Fulda when Colonel Dooley turned you.”

  “Now I want to know what the hell’s going on,” Frade said.

  “I recognize that voice. You’re the guy on the radio,” Dooley accused. “You’re the wiseass who called me Little Brother!”

  “I plead guilty to both charges and throw myself on the mercy of the court,” Frade said.

  “I wondered what that Little Brother business was all about,” von Wachtstein said.

  “As a fighter pilot, Colonel Dooley,”
Frade said, “I’m surprised you don’t know that the wings of your P-38 are a minor design variant of the wings of a Constellation. Hence ‘Little Brother.’”

  “What do you know about what fighter pilots should know, wiseass?” Dooley exploded.

  “Well, I agree with those who say most of them should not be allowed in public without their psychiatric nurses,” Frade said, smiled, and sipped his whiskey.

  “With certain exceptions, of course,” von Wachtstein chimed in.

  “Fuck you, too!” Dooley exploded.

  Frade and von Wachtstein laughed.

  “Before this gets any further out of hand, Colonel Dooley,” Mattingly said, “for your general fund of knowledge, I think I should tell you that these gentlemen are pulling your chain.”

  Dooley was Irish. Once his ire was ignited, it did not go out easily.

  “Meaning what?” Dooley demanded.

  “They are—or were—fighter pilots.”

  “And then we grew up and they let us fly real airplanes,” Frade said.

  He and von Wachtstein laughed again.

  “That one,” Mattingly said, pointing to von Wachtstein, “received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from the Führer himself for his services as a fighter pilot. And that one”—he pointed to Frade—“had seven, I believe they’re called ‘meatballs,’ painted on the nose of his Grumman Wildcat.”

  Dooley looked at Frade.

  “No shit?” he asked. “Seven Jap kills?”

  Frade nodded, then said, “But no convertibles. What the hell was that on your nose?”

  “None of your fucking business,” Dooley flared anew.

  “What did you do, pop some poor bastard out for a Sunday drive?” Frade pursued.

  “Go fuck yourself,” Dooley said.

  “All right, enough!” Mattingly said. “I’ll stand you all to attention, if that’s what I have to do.”

  Dooley looked at von Wachtstein and said, “You’re telling me he was a Kraut fighter pilot? What the fuck . . . ?”

  “Stand to attention, Colonel!” Mattingly ordered. “I said enough.”

  “I’d like to know about the convertible,” von Wachtstein said, his tone of voice no longer joking or mocking.

  “Go fuck yourself,” Dooley said.