W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound

by Honor Bound(Lit)

  "To your health, Peter," Clete said, raising his glass.

  "And yours, Clete," Peter replied in English.

  "The house was built by my granduncle Guillermo," Clete said, and went on to relate the history of Uncle Bill and the house.

  It'll give me a chance to decide how to handle this, he thought. I am obviously in the presence of mine enemy.

  Capitan von Wachtstein was properly appreciative of the story of Granduncle Guillermo, chuckled a final time, and then met Clete's eyes.

  "You said you were formerly a lieutenant," he asked amiably. "In the Argentine Army?"

  "No," Clete said.

  "I could not help but observe your watch," von Wachtstein said in a polite challenge. "I have seen such watches before."

  "Have you?"

  "On the wrists of American aviators shot down over France and Germany. They are very good watches."

  "You are a very perceptive man, mi Capitan."

  "Possibly. And you have a very interesting Spanish accent.

  Why do I think that my being here may be very awkward for both of us?"

  "I am not a professional officer, mi Capitan," Clete said. "I have no idea what conduct is expected of an officer, even a former officer, when he meets an enemy officer in a neutral country."

  "And in his father's house," Peter replied. "I, on the other hand, am a professional officer, and I haven't the faintest idea either. My father, however-my father is a Generalmajor, and presumably should know about these things-served in France in the First World War and often told me about the armistice, the unofficial armistice, declared between the English and the Ger-mans on Christmas Eve. Do you suppose, as officers and gentle-men, that we might pretend it's Christmas Eve? We'd only be off by a couple of weeks. Less."

  "I think that would be a splendid solution," Clete said. "Merry Christmas, Captain. Peter.''

  They shook hands.

  "Frohliche Weihnachten, Clete," Peter said. "You were a pi-lot, right?"

  Clete nodded.

  "I could tell," Peter said. "Not only by the watch. Pilots are better-looking, more charming, and far more intelligent than other officers."

  "More modest, too," Clete said.

  "Absolutely. What did you fly?"

  "Wildcats, Grumman Wildcats."

  "You're a fighter pilot. So am I. Most recently Focke-Wulf 190s. I had a Jaeger squadron near Berlin."

  "I was in the Pacific. Midway and Guadalcanal."

  Their eyes met and locked for a moment.

  "We heard about Guadalcanal," Peter said. "My father told me that the Japanese military attach‚ assured him that the Amer-icans would be forced into the sea within weeks. My father said he did not think so."

  "We were hanging on by our teeth for a while," Clete said. "But we're there for good now, I think."

  "Are the Japanese pilots competent? And their aircraft?"

  "The Zero is a first-class fighter," Clete said. "And some of the Japanese pilots, two in particular, were very good."

  Peter chuckled in understanding.

  "You were shot down twice?"

  "Shot down twice, disabled once. I was able to bring it in dead-stick."

  "Over Russia, especially in the Steppes, losing an engine is not much of a problem. You can sit down almost anywhere. Over Western Europe, it is a problem. The farms are smaller, and in France, in Normandy in particular, the edges of the fields are fenced with rock."

  "I guess you know from experience?"

  "Yes. Your Flying Fortress-B-17?"

  Clete nodded.

  "... is formidable."

  "We have a saying-about pilots and watches-that you can always tell a B-17 pilot in the shower. He's the one with the big watch and the small prick."

  He had to explain "prick" to Peter, the Mexican-Spanish vul-garism not being the same as the Spanish-Spanish; but eventually Peter laughed appreciatively.

  I'm running off at the mouth, Clete thought, somewhat alarmed, which means I'm getting drunk. Why? I've only had three of these. What I should do, obviously, is politely tell mine enemy "good night," go to bed, and sort this all out in the morning. To hell with it. We have a gentleman's agreement that it's Christmas Eve, and I like this guy.

  He picked up the cognac bottle, poured some in Peter's glass, and then refilled his own.

  "I will not ask what an American Air Force officer is doing in Argentina," Peter said.

  "Thank you," Clete said quickly. "An ex-officer. And I was a Marine, not in the Air Corps."

  "A Marine? What is a Marine?"

  "Soldiers of the sea," Clete said.

  "Ah, yes. I have heard of the Marines. An elite force. They are like our SS."

  "An elite force," Clete said coldly. "But not at goddamn all like your SS."

  Their eyes locked again.

  "There is propaganda on both sides in a war," Peter said. "Some of the SS-perhaps most-are fine soldiers."

  "I think we better change the subject, Peter."

  "And some are despicable scum," Peter went on.

  "I know why you're here," Clete said. "You escorted Jorge Duarte's body, right?"

  Peter nodded, then said, "My father arranged it. He wanted me out of the war, out of Germany."

  Gott, I must be drunk! Peter thought. Why did I tell him that?

  "I don't understand."

  "I lost my two brothers, and my mother, in this war," Peter said. "My father wanted to preserve the family."

  "I'm sorry," Clete said.

  That was sincere, Peter thought. He meant that.

  "Just before you came in here, I was wondering, with the as-sistance of Herr Martel"-he held up his brandy snifter-"if I have done the honorable thing."

  "You said your father arranged it. Could you have stopped him?"

  "I was wondering about that too. I didn't try."

  "I was glad to get off of Guadalcanal," Clete said. "I figured I was running out of percentages."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You can only go up and come down in one piece so many times," Clete said. "Eventually, you don't come back. We call it the percentage."

  "Yes," Peter agreed. "But you felt no... obligation of honor... to remain?"

  "I did not ask to be relieved, but I was glad when I was."

  "I got drunk when I was relieved," Peter said. "I told myself I did it because I did not wish to be relieved. Now I am wondering if I really wasn't... glad."

  "I thought maybe you were with Duarte when he was killed," Clete said.

  "Never met him. I was told he was killed at Stalingrad flying a Storch, a little high-wing monoplane used for artillery spotting, carrying people around, that sort of thing."

  "That he wasn't supposed to be flying in the first place. My father told me that if he had any idea he was putting him in the line of fire, he never would have let him go over there."

  "What sort of a fellow was he?"

  "I never met him," Clete said.

  "Really? I thought he was your cousin."

  "He was. But I never met him. Or his parents. Or, for that matter, my father, until a couple of days ago."

  "I met them this afternoon. That was very difficult. I had the feeling they were asking, 'What are you doing alive when our son is dead?' "

  "I had exactly the same feeling when I met them," Clete said.

  "How is it you never met them?"

  Clete told the story, including the cover story of his heart mur-mur and his job down here making sure the Argentines weren't diverting American oil products to the Germans. The lies made him uncomfortable, especially after "mine enemy" had been so openly sincere.

  "Does that mean you can't fly anymore?"

  "No. It just means I can't fly for the Marines."

  "I miss flying," Peter said. "And I don't think I'll be doing much, if any, flying here."

  "My father has a light airplane. If I can persuade him to let me use it, I'll take you for a ride."

  "I would like that," Peter said seriously. "Thank y
ou very much."

  Se¤ora Pellano came into the library a few minutes after one to find Se¤or Cletus and the young German officer standing by the fireplace making strange movements with their hands, like little boys pretending their hands were aeroplanes.

  They seemed embarrassed that they had been drinking. There was no reason for that.

  She told them she had gone to midnight mass at the Basilica de Nuestra Se¤ora del Pilar, which was why she was so late, and asked them if they would like anything to eat.

  But they thanked her and said they were about to go to bed.

  For about half an hour she sat on a little stool behind the door of the corridor that led from the foyer to the kitchen, until she heard them-sounding very happy if perhaps a little drunk-tell each other goodnight.

  [FOUR]

  Calle Olavarria

  La Boca, Buenos Aires

  1135 13 December 1942

  As he prepared to enter the Church of San Juan Evangelista, Tony was telling himself for the tenth or twelfth time that he was mak-ing a fool of himself, a church seemed to be on every other corner, and the odds of her showing up at this one were one in nine zillion. That was when he saw her coming around the corner from the direction of Ristorante Napoli.

  She wasn't as well-dressed as the last time he saw her. She was wearing a simple cotton dress and sandals, with a shawl around her shoulders and over her head. But she was even more beautiful than he remembered, like one of the statues of the Virgin Mary in St. Rose of Lima's, back in Cicero.

  Seeing him standing by the church door seemed to surprise her, even to frighten her, as if he might do something bad to her, and she quickly averted her eyes.

  Tony had gathered his courage. "Buenas noches, Se¤orita," he said, smiling. It wasn't all that much different from Italian.

  She looked at him and just perceptibly smiled, but did not speak.

  He waited a good three minutes before following her inside the church, among other things debating the Christian morality of trying to pick up a girl there. He finally decided it was all right, he wasn't trying to fuck her or anything.

  He had a little trouble finding her in the church; it was dark inside. And when he did find her, he had trouble finding a seat that would give him a view of something besides the back of her head.

  But even that wasn't so bad. He stepped on some old lady's foot and she yelped, and he said without thinking, "Scusi," in Italian, and the old lady answered him in Italian. She said he was a clumsy jackass, but she said it in Italian, and that made him think that maybe the girl also spoke Italian-why not? She had gone into the Ristorante Napoli, and this was an Italian neigh-borhood. Maybe if he had a chance to say hello to her again, he could try it in Italian and wouldn't sound like the neighborhood idiot trying to talk to her in Spanish.

  He said a prayer for his family, and thanked God for not getting caught in Uruguay. And he asked God's protection when they tried to blow a hole in the ship. And then he asked God, "Please let me meet her." And for a moment he wondered if he should have done that, but decided there was nothing wrong with it, he had no carnal lusts for her or anything like that.

  Once she turned around and saw him. And even in the dim light-he didn't think there was a bulb bigger than forty watts in all of Argentina, and the ones in here looked like refrigerator bulbs-he thought he saw her blush.

  When she stood up and left, walking past him out of the church, she didn't look at him, although he knew damned well she had seen him. He hurried after her, and saw her heading toward the Ristorante Napoli. He waited until she disappeared around the corner and then walked quickly after her.

  What the hell, it was three blocks to the ristorante, maybe I can catch up with her.

  She turned another corner, a block away from the Ristorante Napoli, and he walked faster so he wouldn't lose her. And in case she went in some house or something, he would know where she lived.

  When he turned the corner, she was waiting for him.

  "If my father sees you following me, he will cut out your heart with a knife," she said. In Italian!

  His mouth went on automatic. He was startled to hear himself say, "Oh, please don't tell your father. I am just a poor Italian boy far from home and all alone."

  Boy, did I put my foot in my mouth with that stupid line.

  But she smiled.

  "You're telling the truth?"

  Tony held up his right hand.

  "I swear to God!" he declared passionately.

  "Where are you from? The North?"

  "Cicero."

  "Where?"

  "Cicero, Illinois. Outside Chicago. In the United States of America."

  "You're telling the truth?"

  "I swear to God, on my mother's honor."

  "I have never heard of Cicero, Illinois," she said.

  "It's a nice place. You would like it. You ought to visit there sometime."

  There you go again, asshole! Think before you open your god-damned mouth!

  "You are an American?" she asked in disbelief.

  "I am an American."

  "If you are an American, you must speak English."

  "I do."

  "Say something in English."

  "What do you want me to say?" Tony asked in English.

  "Say you are a poor Italian boy far from home and all alone."

  "I really am," Tony said in English.

  "You can't speak English!"

  "I am a poor Italian boy far from home and all alone," Tony quickly said in English.

  Her eyes widened.

  "I think I maybe believe you," the girl said.

  "I swear to God."

  She smiled and took his arm.

  "It is not right to be alone and far from home," she said. "Come, I will take you home with me and we will have a glass of wine for you, and a cake."

  I don't believe this! Thank you, God!

  She took him to the Ristorante Napoli, which was closed, and through a door that opened on a stairway that led to a little apart-ment over the restaurant.

  Her father-Tony recognized him as the guy who gave him the good meal the first time he went to the restaurant-and her mother and some younger brothers and sisters were there.

  Her father didn't recognize him.

  Thank God, after that bullshit story I handed him about being from some village near the Austrian border!

  The girl told her family they had met in the church and that he had told her he was alone, and she had brought him home for a glass of wine and a cake. Her mother raised her eyebrows the way Tony's grandmother used to raise hers; but her father gave him a glass of wine, and then another, and some kind of pastry her mother said she made special for the family and not for the restaurant. And then everybody just sat there sort of uncomfort-able, so Tony took the hint and decided he better get the hell out of there before he made a pest of himself, and started to go.

  He shook hands with everybody and then the girl went down the stairs with him to the street, and he gathered his courage and blurted, "I'd really like to see you again."

  "Impossible."

  "Why is it impossible? We could have a cup of coffee or something. Dinner."

  "It's impossible."

  "Why is it impossible?"

  "I have a job. I work all week."

  "You have to have some time off."

  "Very little."

  "You have to have some," Tony argued. "You're off now, for example. Are you working tomorrow? Tomorrow's Sunday!"

  She hesitated before replying, "No. But my family will be visiting relatives."

  "All day?"

  "From five."

  "What about between now and five?"

  "It's not a very good idea."

  "Please!"

  "It's crazy."

  "Let me at least buy you a cup of coffee."

  "I should not do this, but..."

  "But what?"

  "You come here at nine-thirty tomorrow. We take the train to El Tigre. We have
a cup of coffee, maybe a little sandwich, and then we come back. OK."