Victory and Honor hb-6
Page 26
“We’re not talking about that,” Mattingly said.
Tiny Dunwiddie said, “What I’m wondering is what we do with the boys.”
“What?” Mattingly asked.
Dunwiddie related the story, then said, “When I had a chance to tell you about Max and Egon, Colonel, I was going to ask if it would be all right if the boys stayed with them on the third floor until we figure out what to do with them.”
“Where are your people going to stay?” Mattingly asked.
“I requisitioned the house next door,” Tiny said. “That’s why we need two generators, so they can have juice, too.”
“Okay,” Mattingly said after a moment. “That’ll work.” He turned to Max. “Do you think you could find us a housekeeper? Maybe two? Cook, wash, clean, make beds, et cetera? Both ugly and over fifty?”
Max nodded. “There are tens of thousands of women in Berlin—some young and quite beautiful—who will jump at the chance to work—or do anything else—for food and to be safe from the Russians.”
“Get us a couple of the old and ugly ones,” Mattingly ordered. “See if you can do that when you go pick up the kids. Tiny, send Max in one of the M-8s.” He paused. “I don’t know how we’ll handle two kids around here. How old did you say they were?”
“One is fifteen, the other fourteen,” Max said. “Just before we deserted, the fourteen-year-old, Heinrich, took out a Russian T-34 with a Panzerfaust—”
“With a what?” Frade asked.
“Handheld rocket,” Tiny furnished.
“This fourteen-year-old kid killed a Russian tank?” Frade asked incredulously.
Egon nodded. “And then Heinrich cried, Herr Oberst, and wet his pants, and that’s when Max and I decided it was time to desert and try to keep Heinrich and Gerhard alive.”
“Jesus Christ!” Frade said, and then asked, “I don’t suppose there’s anything to drink around here, is there?”
“Patience is a virtue, Colonel Frade,” Mattingly said. “Try to remember that all things come to he who waits.”
[THREE]
The first M-8 armored car that Frade had ever seen was when they had landed at Tempelhof. Curious, and wanting a better look at one, he and von Wachtstein followed Tiny Dunwiddie out to the street. Tiny was taking Max out to get him a ride to fetch Heinrich, the fourteen-year-old who had killed a T-34, his fifteen-year-old pal Gerhard, and two old and ugly women.
The M-8 had six wheels, like the standard six-by-six Army truck, and it looked like someone had set the turret of a tank down on top of the truck.
The Second Armored Division troopers were happy to show off their vehicle to the three men in the officer equivalent civilian employee uniforms.
“How about taking me along when you go get these people?” von Wachtstein said.
“Hell, we’ll both go,” Frade said.
“There won’t be room,” von Wachtstein said. “Why don’t you wait until we come back?”
Frade was about to argue but then saw a three-quarter-ton truck coming down Roonstrasse. It had two of Tiny’s men in it. Lieutenant Colonel Archer W. Dooley Jr., USAAF, sat beside the driver.
Frade looked at von Wachtstein and said, “Remember, Hansel, Mattingly said ‘old and ugly.’ You’re now a married man.”
Von Wachtstein gave him the finger. The M-8 started to move.
When the three-quarter pulled to the curb, Frade saw what had fallen off the Constellation. In addition to the generators, the truck carried one of the insulated containers holding fifty kilograms of chilled Argentine steak, another insulated container labeled VEGETABLES AND ORANGES, and two wooden cases on which was painted BODEGA DON GUILLERMO MENDOZA CABERNET SAUVIGNON 1944.
“You could have waited for me, hotshot,” Dooley said as he climbed out of the truck. “Until I saw Tiny’s guys, I was standing on the tarmac with my thumb up my ass.”
“Be careful with the wine, Sergeant,” Frade ordered. “It’s nectar of the gods.”
[FOUR]
Tiny’s men quickly got one of the generators up and running. Lightbulbs glowed and then came to full brightness. The refrigerator came to life with a screech and several loud thumps.
“Now that we have juice,” Mattingly said as he walked out of the kitchen, “Stein will have the Collins up and running, and I will be able to tell David Bruce that we done good.” He paused and added, “Don’t drink all the wine before I get back.”
Tiny pulled the cork from a bottle of the Cabernet with what looked like the corkscrew accessory on a Boy Scout knife. Clete put his hand out and after a moment Tiny took his meaning. He laid a knife with the Boy Scout insignia on it.
“‘Be Prepared’!” Tiny said. “You never heard that, Colonel?”
“You’re speaking to Eagle Scout Clete Frade, Troop 36, Midland, Texas,” he said with a knowing grin, then flashed the Scout sign with his right hand.
Frade’s grin faded quickly when von Wachtstein walked into the kitchen followed by Max, who had his hands on the shoulders of two gaunt, pale-faced boys wearing tattered, ill-fitting remnants of German army uniforms.
Jesus H. Christ!
The little one has to be Heinrich.
The one who killed a T-34 with a Panzerfaust, then pissed his pants.
“Hello,” Frade said. “You’re Heinrich, right?”
The boy came to attention.
“The war is over, Heinrich,” Frade said. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”
Max walked to a corner of the kitchen and picked up two waxpaper-wrapped cartons labeled CRATION.
“With your permission, Herr Dunwiddie?”
“You don’t have to ask, for Christ’s sake,” Tiny snapped.
He pulled chairs out from the kitchen table and motioned for the boys to sit in them. When they had done so, he used his Boy Scout knife to open the Crations.
He took a Bar, Chocolate, Single, Hershey’s, from each and tore the corners off and handed them to the boys.
“It’s all right,” Max said in German. “It’s chocolate.”
Both boys took a small bite, then smiled shyly.
“Is that the best we can do for them, Crations?” Frade asked. He realized his voice sounded strange.
“In just a minute, Colonel, I’m going to open that”—he pointed to one of the insulated containers that had fallen off the Constellation—“and see if I can find them an orange.”
“They’re also going to need a bath and some clothes,” Frade said. “What can we do about that?”
“Now that we have electricity, Herr Oberst,” Egon said, “there will be hot water in half an hour.”
“And can we buy them something to wear? Have we got any German money?”
“German money is useless, Colonel,” Tiny said. “So, for that matter, is American. But I think Max can get them some clothing by trading a couple of Crations and packs of Lucky Strikes. I also have Nescafé.”
He pulled open a kitchen cabinet door. The cabinet was stuffed with cartons of cigarettes and Nescafé.
“Like I said, Colonel—‘Be Prepared.’”
He walked back to the table, where he showed the boys how to open small, olive-drab tin cans labeled STEW, BEEF, W/POTATOES.
Clete saw that tears were running down Heinrich’s and Gerhard’s cheeks.
Frade took a swallow of the Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon 1944. It didn’t taste as good as he expected it to.
Then he looked at Lieutenant Colonel Archer W. Dooley Jr. and saw that tears were running down his cheeks, too. Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez, Retired, wasn’t crying, but he looked as if he was about to.
“You going to drink all that wine by yourself, hotshot, or do I get some?” Dooley asked.
Mattingly came into the kitchen.
“Pay attention,” he said. “There is a message from the Supreme Commander. Quote. Pass to all OSS and Air Forces personnel involved. Well done. Eisenhower. General of the Army. Close quote.”
“You’re welcome,
Ike,” Frade said. “We’re always happy to do what we can.”
“The significant part of the Supreme Commander’s message, Colonel Frade, is that Ike is grateful to the OSS. That just may buy us some time.”
“Point taken,” Frade said.
“And then, when David Bruce had finished delivering Ike’s thank-you, he dropped the other shoe. ‘Get the Argentine diplomats and their airplane out of Berlin as soon as possible.’ He was more than a little disappointed that we couldn’t leave this afternoon. But first thing in the morning . . .”
[FIVE]
357 Roonstrasse, Zehlendorf Berlin, Germany 0715 21 May 1945
Breakfast was prepared by the two women Max had brought to the house late the previous afternoon, when he returned from his bartering expedition to get the boys clothing.
The women were neither old nor ugly.
Clete saw that their eyes, however, were empty. They were sexless.
Neuter, Clete thought. Zombies in skirts.
It was hard to guess even how old they were. Somewhere, Clete gauged, between his own age and fifty.
Both wore wedding rings, but Clete suspected their husbands were no longer part of their lives.
Frade, when able to do so quietly, gave in to the temptation to ask Egon if he thought they had been raped.
“They told me, with great hesitation,” Egon reported, “that the Asiatics had Giesela for most of a week. And Inge for four days. That meant Giesela had been repeatedly raped for most of a week, but Inge for ‘only’ four days.”
“Jesus H. Christ!”
“It happened all over, Herr Oberst,” Egon said. “Women. Young girls. Grandmothers. Boys. It would have happened to Gerhard and Heinrich, too. Except that when the Asiatics finished with boys from the Volkssturm, they killed them. That’s why Max and I took Heinrich and Gerhard with us.”
Von Wachtstein came into the kitchen. His officer equivalent civilian employee uniform had been replaced by clothing that looked only a little cleaner and less tattered than what the boys had been wearing.
Frade knew immediately what that meant, but had a hard time accepting the reality of it.
Shit!
“Have a nice flight, Clete,” von Wachtstein said. “I’ll see you when you come back with the money.”
“Didn’t you hear what Gehlen said, you goddamn fool? The Russians are going to crucify you upside down, because you’ll be easier to skin that way.”
“That presumes the Russians catch me. I’m going to try very hard to see that doesn’t happen.”
“Well, you’re not going, so get rid of those clothes and put on your uniform. We’re about to leave for Tempelhof.”
As if to make the point that it was time to go to the airport, Peralta came into the kitchen, followed by Stein, Mattingly, and Boltitz.
Mattingly’s, Boltitz’s, and Stein’s faces showed that they also knew the meaning of the clothing and didn’t like it either.
Peralta’s face showed complete disbelief.
“Hansel,” Frade went on, “you’re going back with us if I have to have Tiny and his guys tie you up and throw you on the airplane.”
“You could of course do that, Clete. But all that would do is delay my departure for Pomerania and increase the chances I’ll be caught by the Russians.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind!” Clete said.
“It is my duty to our people.”
“What about your duty to your wife and child? Don’t try to feed me that noblesse oblige bullshit. I don’t buy it, Herr Graf! It’s a crock of shit!”
“I’m sorry you don’t understand, Cletus. It is a matter of honor.”
“Where’s the honor in getting skinned like a fucking Christmas turkey?”
That’s stuffed like a turkey, jackass!
“You know how much of the von Wachtstein assets are in Argentina, Cletus. How could I live with myself in Argentina if I didn’t use them to help what are now my people?”
“How are you going to help them, Herr Graf, your royal fucking majesty, if you’re nailed skinless and upside down to the fucking castle door?”
“What I am going to do, Cletus, is let my people know—”
“You sound like Moses, for Christ’s sake. You should hear yourself ! ‘Let my people go!’ Jesus!”
“Moses said, ‘Let my people go.’ What I said was that I intend to let my people know that the Graf von Wachtstein has not deserted them and will do everything in his power . . .”
“There’s that regal fucking third person! Mattingly, do you believe this?”
“. . . everything in his power to get them out from under the Communists and to a new life in Argentina.”
“Send them a fucking telegram!”
“They have to see me. Once they have seen me, and I have spoken with them, I will come here.”
“Just for the sake of argument, let’s say that doesn’t work. What am I supposed to tell your wife?”
“If something should happen to me, my dear friend, I would want you to tell the Countess von Wachtstein that I loved her as I have never loved any other woman, and that I regret that she must now assume the responsibilities that come with the title. And remind her that if I am no longer alive, our son is the Graf von Wachtstein.”
Clete looked at him but, feeling his throat constrict and knowing his voice simply wasn’t going to work, said nothing more.
“I have treasured your friendship, Cletus,” von Wachtstein said. “Will you not shake my hand and wish me luck?”
Peter put out his hand.
After a long moment, Clete took it.
Their eyes met. The handshake turned into an embrace.
When Colonel Robert Mattingly and Lieutenant Colonel Archer W. Dooley Jr. heard Frade, his voice breaking, say, “You better come back, you crazy Kraut sonofabitch, or I’ll come to that goddamn castle of yours and kick your ass all the way back to Argentina,” they averted their faces and dabbed at their eyes with their handkerchiefs.
[SIX]
Tempelhof Air Base Berlin, Germany 1005 21 May 1945
“Tempelhof Departure Control. South American Airways Double Zero Four on the threshold of Twenty-seven.”
“Tempelhof Departure Control clears South American Airways Zero Zero Four as Number One for takeoff on Runway Two Seven. South American Double Zero Four is cleared Direct Rhein-Main Air Base. On takeoff, when on course two-three-two-point-two degrees, climb to twenty thousand feet. When possible, change to Helmstedt Area Control on Ground-Air Channel Two. Be aware, P-38 aircraft are, and Soviet aircraft may be, active on your route. Acknowledge.”
Clete repeated the clearance.
“Takeoff power, please,” Chief Pilot Delgano ordered.
“Tempelhof,” Clete reported a moment later. “South American Double Zero Four Rolling.”
“Helmstedt Area Control, South American Double Zero Four,” Frade radioed.
“Double Zero Four, Helmstedt reads you five by five. How me?”
“Helmstedt, also five by five. South American Double Zero Four at twenty thousand indicating three-fifty on a course of two-three-two-point-two. Leaving Soviet zone and entering American zone at this time.”
“Helmstedt understands Zero Zero Four has entered American zone.”
“Affirmative. Helmstedt, South American. En route change of destination. Please close out my Rhein-Main flight plan, and note that we are changing course to two-three-seven-point-three at this time. Direct ultimate destination Lisbon, Portugal.”
“Double Zero Four, I’m not sure you can do that.”
“Don’t be silly,” Frade said. “Of course we can.”
Dooley’s voice then came across Frade’s headset: “Hey, hotshot. Try not to run into the Pyrenees.”
“Little Brother,” Frade replied, “I wondered where you were.”
“I’ve been covering your ass from above and behind.”
Sixty seconds later, Colonel Dooley demonstrated this by suddenly appearing—c
oming out of a high-speed dive—in front of the Ciudad de Rosario. Then he twice rolled the Lockheed Lightning and made a steep descending turn out of their path.
“So long, hotshot!” Dooley said. “Write if you find work.”
When Dooley was out of sight, Frade said, “Gonzo, when Dooley gets out of the Air Forces after the war, I was thinking he’d make a fine SAA pilot.”
“Is that an order or an observation?”
“Right now, just an observation.”
“In that case, I quite agree,” Delgano said, then his tone softened as he added: “Clete, Mario told me about Peter von Wachtstein.”
“And?”
“I knew when we had dinner with General Gehlen that Peter was going to Pomerania, and that there was nothing you or anyone else could do to stop him.”
“You’re pretty perceptive. Maybe you should consider giving up driving airplanes and becoming, oh, I don’t know, maybe an intelligence officer.”
X
[ONE]
4730 Avenida Libertador General San Martín Buenos Aires, Argentina 1900 25 May 1945
It is times like this, Cletus H. Frade thought as he surveyed the scene taking place in the library, that I very much miss my father.
And that I curse those goddamn Nazi bastards for taking him away from me . . . from us . . . from this.
Clete felt his throat constrict.
Damn it! He would’ve been so proud.
Doña Dorotea Mallín de Frade stood beside him as they watched her mother, la Señora Pamela Holworth-Talley de Mallín, formerly of Huddersfield, Yorkshire, and Clete’s “mother,” Mrs. Martha Howell of Midland, Texas. The two grandmothers were playing with Dorotea and Clete’s sons—Jorge Howell Frade, eighteen months old, and five-month-old Cletus Howell Frade Jr.
Also watching them were Miss Beth Howell and Miss Marjorie Howell, and Clete suspected his “sisters” were daydreaming of adding offspring to the family.