He reached this conclusion by a circuitous route, starting from a moment when he glanced down at the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross around his neck and at the other one on the red velvet pillow.
His first thoughts were unkind: This goddamned fool does not deserve the Knight's Cross. He got himself killed flying an air-plane that he was not supposed to be flying in the first place, in a war that wasn't his.
Other thoughts immediately followed: Furthermore, he was probably unqualified to fly the Storch at all. It is a relatively simple, stable aircraft; but like all airplanes, it has its peculiar-ities. The Storche I've flown have gone from the first faint, barely detectable indication of a low-speed stall condition to a full stall in the time it takes to spit.
Whereupon, the sonofabitch drops through the sky like a stone. Standard stall-recovery procedures work, of course, providing you have several hundred feet of altitude to play with. If not, you encounter the ground in an out-of-control attitude, and with con-sequent loud crashing noises.
There are two ways to enter a stall condition-in addition to on purpose, which is what the instructor pilot does to you during Transition Training, which it is safe to assume the late Capitan Duarte did not have, the Luftwaffe not being in the habit of teach-ing Cavalry officers from South American countries to fly its air-planes. An airplane goes into an unplanned stall either because the pilot is stupid enough to allow the airfoils to run out of lift, or because the propeller has stopped turning and pulling the air-plane through the air with enough velocity for the airflow over the airfoils to provide sufficient lift. Propellers stop turning usu-ally because the engine has stopped turning. Engines are fairly reliable. They seldom stop turning unless they are broken, as when, for example, they are hit by small-arms fire.
The rule to be drawn from this is that if you are flying a Storch near the ground someplace, you pay particular attention to air-speed and engine RPM, so that if the engine is struck by small-arms fire and shows indications of stopping, you can make a dead-stick landing someplace without stalling.
Capitan Duarte did not do this. The documents accompanying the remains gave the cause of death as "severe trauma to the body caused by sudden deceleration." If he was hit, the docu-ments would have said so.
The late Capitan Duarte crashed the sonofabitch, because he didn't know how to fly the sonofabitch. And he took some poor bastard with him.
He therefore deserves the posthumous award of the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross about as much as Winston S. Churchill does. And awarding it to him is a slap in the face to every pilot who has earned it, including, of course, Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein.
By the time the funeral procession moved from the courtyard outside the Basilica to the cemetery, Peter was having second thoughts:
Wait. Am I being fair to the poor bastard? Is the coffee cup full of brandy I had for breakfast talking? Or the monumental ego of Hauptmann von Wachtstein, fighter pilot extraordinary? Or both?
Bullshit. Clete Frade was contemptuous when he heard they were awarding this clown-his cousin, by the by-the Knight's Cross. Christ, even Oberst Grner was disgusted.
From that point, Peter became less unkind.
On the other hand, even if he was a Hauptmann, Duarte was an inexperienced officer. Inexperienced officers do dumb things, especially before they learn that all the talk of the glory of war is pure bullshit. I did. To save Germany from godless communism, and to bring glory to the Luftwaffe and Der Fhrer, 1 did some pretty goddamn dumb things in Spain myself. And in Poland. And in France.
Cletus told me that he went on his first combat mission deter-mined to personally avenge the humiliation the United States suf-fered at Pearl Harbor.
"It took about fifteen seconds with a Zero on my tail," Clete said, "to realize that all I wanted out of the war was Clete Frade's skin in one piece; somebody else was welcome to the glory of avenging Pearl Harbor."
Clete is an honest man, more honest than I am. I would find it hard to publicly admit a sentiment like that, even though I felt it. And Clete is no coward. He told me that he thought his "chances of getting off Guadalcanal alive ranged from zero to none," but he continued to fly.
El Capit n Duarte presumably was not a stupid man. He would have learned that lesson probably as quickly as Clete, and surely more quickly than I. It's a pity he killed himself before he ac-quired a little wisdom.
An officer is honor bound to face whatever hazards his duty requires; not throw his life, or that of his men, away. And that brings me back to Cletus Howell Frade. On one hand, if Clete is in fact an OSS agent, he knows full well the risks he is running coming down here. It may not be spelled out in neat paragraphs in the Geneva Convention, but everyone understands that spies operating in neutral countries get killed by the other side's spies.
In war, the Geneva Convention permits the out-of-hand exe-cution of spies and saboteurs. The Geneva Convention is quite clear on the subject; A soldier found out of uniform behind enemy lines loses the protection afforded a soldier in uniform. He is presumed to be a spy or saboteur.
But Grner-he said so-doesn't know if Clete is an OSS agent or not. And even if he is, he may just be down here to influence his father, or as some kind of high-level message deliverer.
And if Clete is not a spy, where does Grner get the authority to order his execution?
And if Clete is a spy, what then is Grner? He is certainly not functioning as an officer of a belligerent army, facing his enemy on a battlefield. He is an agent of an intelligence service. In other words, they are both out of uniform; both are outside the protec-tion-and the restrictions-of the Geneva Convention.
But if Grner is caught for ordering the murder of Clete-or of his own hired assassins, for that matter-he will escape pros-ecution... not because his actions are permitted by the Rules of Land Warfare, but because he is carrying a diplomatic passport, which renders him immune to the laws of Argentina.
On the other hand, if Clete killed Grner on his country's or-ders, and was caught, he would face an Argentine judge on a charge of murder. That's unfair.
Can I thus conclude that since Grner's conduct fails to meet the small print in the Geneva Convention, as well as the German Officer's Code of Honor, I am therefore at liberty to violate the German Officer's Code of Honor and warn Clete?
By stretching the point, yes I can.
But be honest with yourself, Peter. You don't want to warn him because you have put yourself through this exercise in moral phi-losophy, but because you like him. We thought we -were witty when we told each other we would like to shoot each other down, meanwhile smiling at each other with warm affection. But beneath the warmth there is also the cold truth. If duty requires, we would try to shoot each other down. Yet there would be no smile on the victor's face-his or mine.
I wonder which of us would be good enough to shoot down the other. I have more victories, but until recently, most of my op-ponents were inexperienced pilots flying inferior machines.
Clete's kills were experienced pilots, flying aircraft at least as good as his own. He's probably a damned good fighter pilot.
I like him, but I would be willing to kill him in the air; as he would me. That would be an honorable death for a warrior. And my conscience, like his, would be untroubled. But for me to stand by silently waiting to hear that his throat has been cut by Gr£ner's hired assassins would not be honorable, and I could never find an excuse to forgive myself.
A final thought came to him:
My father would understand my decision.
That brings me back to how do I tell him?
He will almost certainly be at the Duarte mansion for the re-ception after the funeral. I will somehow manage a minute alone with him.
[SIX]
1420 Avenue Alvear
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1605 19 December 1942
"I wondered what happened to you," Se¤orita Alicia Carzino-Cormano said, walking up to Hauptmann Freiherr von
Wachtstein and smiling at him over the rim of her teacup. "Is this pretty awful for you?"
Peter bowed and clicked his heels, but there was not time for him to reply before Se¤orita Isabela Carzino-Cormano walked up to them.
"Se¤orita," he said.
Isabela gave him her hand to be kissed, and he kissed it.
"I was deeply moved when the decoration was given to Poor Jorge," Isabela said.
Peter nodded.
"Isn't that decoration the one your government gave our Poor Jorge?" she asked, touching Peter's Knight's Cross.
"Yes, it is," Peter replied. "I wondered if either of you charm-ing ladies have seen el Teniente Frade?"
"I don't think he's here," Isabela said. "I think his father's disgraceful behavior embarrassed him and he left."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, for God's sake, Isabela!" Alicia protested.
"Of course," Isabela said. "You are too much of a gentleman to have noticed him."
"Noticed him doing what?"
"Weeping in the church, like a child. And, of course, quite drunk."
"I understand he was quite close to el Capitan Duarte," Peter said.
And holds himself responsible for the poor bastard's death.
"If Cletus is not here, then he's probably at the Guest House," Alicia volunteered.
If I can get to a telephone, I can call him.
"Se¤orita, do you happen to know where I could find a tele-phone?"
"Finding the telephone is easy," she said. "There are two lines here. But if you intend to make a call..."
She inclined her head. Peter saw a group of people near a telephone set in an alcove in the wall. A gentleman was speaking excitedly into it, and he was oblivious to the dirty looks of the others waiting for it.
"I was thinking of calling a friend," Alicia said. "But it was no use, so I gave up."
"Se¤orita, I am staying at the Alvear Palace. My call is im-portant. Official business. Might I suggest that you walk down there with me and make your call from one of the telephones in the lobby?"
Inspiration! I don't know where that idea came from, but it was divinely inspired. I can walk out of here with her-If I can get rid of the older sister, that would not be a bad idea, in any case-which will satisfy Grner's curiosity about what happened to me. And I can telephone Clete from my room.
I don't have his goddamned number! How the hell do I get the number?
"In Argentina, Capitan, young ladies of a certain position do not go to a gentleman's hotel," Isabela said.
Shit!
"Se¤orita, I am a stranger to your country. No offense was intended."
"And none should have been taken," Alicia said. "If you need to make a telephone call from the hotel, I'll be happy to walk there with you. It would be nice to leave here anyway."
"You are very gracious."
And you have marvelous eyes. I wonder why I never noticed that before.
"Se¤orita, what are the customs of Argentina? May a stranger to your country telephone a young lady of a certain class and ask her to take dinner with him?"
"If the stranger is a gentleman, and you certainly are," Alicia said, "and they have been properly introduced, and we have, in the presence of the young lady's mother, then it is acceptable."
"Wonderful! And might I presume to avail myself of this ac-ceptable custom in the next day or two?"
"You may call, and I will see if I am free."
"You can't tell me that now?"
"You may call," Alicia teased, "and I will see if I am free."
"I will adjust my schedule to yours," Peter said. I will, as a matter of fact, now that the subject has come up, do everything necessary, including standing on my head, to see that fantastic hair undone and spread out on my pillow. "But for now, Se¤orita, may I accept your gracious offer to walk to the hotel with me, so that I can use the telephone."
"You may not care about your reputation, Alicia," Isabela said. "But I do. I can't let you go to the Alvear alone with el Capitan von Wachtstein."
"How do you propose to stop me?" Alicia said. "Wrestle me to the ground?"
She has a spark too. I like that.
"Perhaps," Isabela said, "under the circumstances-I would have to ask Mother-we could escort an honored guest of our country to the Alvear."
"I'll ask Mother," Alicia said firmly, and turned to Peter. "You will wait for me?"
"With my heart beating frantically in anticipation of your re-turn."
He watched her move across the foyer. The curve of her hips is magnificent too, and she has a delightful walk. When she dis-appeared behind a door, he turned to Isabela. "And will you excuse me a moment, Se¤orita?"
"Certainly," Isabela said.
And with a little bit of luck, you won't be here when I come back.
He walked quickly across the foyer toward a corridor.
One of the servants surely knows the number of the Guest House. I just hope this corridor leads me to the kitchen.
He was in luck in the kitchen, which he hoped would turn out to be an omen: The first person to notice him there was the house-keeper from the Guest House.
"May I help you, mi Capitan?" Se¤ora Pellano asked, smiling as she walked up to him.
"I was wondering if you could give me the telephone number of the Guest House, Se¤ora?"
"Is there anything I can do for you there, mi Capit n? I'm afraid the telephones here are all tied up. And in just a few minutes I will be returning to the house on Libertador myself. I would be happy..."
"Thank you, no, Se¤ora. If you would just give me the number, please, Se¤ora."
"I will write it down for you," Se¤ora Pellano said.
As he came back into the foyer, Oberst Grner was waiting for him.
"I was about to organize a search-and-rescue party for you, von Wachtstein," Grner said. "What were you doing in the kitchen?"
"Looking for someone, Herr Oberst."
"For whom?"
Peter gestured across the foyer to where the Carzino-Cormano sisters were standing.
"For them. Or at least for the younger one. They come in pairs down here, I have just learned."
"With a little bit of skill, I'm told, they can be separated,"
Grner said with a smile. "Which answers my second question for you."
"Which was, Herr Oberst?"
"If you would like to come by my quarters for a light supper with myself and Frau Grner."
"Herr Oberst is most kind."
"There is always something for you to eat at my quarters, Peter," Grner said. "But that fraulein is, I would judge, a rare opportunity. Good luck!"
"Thank you, Herr Oberst, for your understanding."
He bowed and clicked his heels and walked away, toward Is-abela and Alicia Carzino-Cormano.
A little gemiitlich family gathering, Herr Oberst? A little Apfelstrudel mit Schlagobers, and a little glass of schnapps, while you await word that your thugs have murdered a very decent human being? Fuck you, Herr Oberst. Willi would understand what I'm doing.
"Mother said it's all right if both of us go," Alicia reported.
"How very gracious of you to join us, Se¤orita Isabela," Peter said.
Shit!
[SEVEN]
Suite 701
The Alvear Palace Hotel
Buenos Aires
1705 19 December 1942
The odds are that my telephone is not tapped, Peter von Wacht-stein thought as he waited for the hotel operator to connect him with the Frade Guest House. What reason would Grner-or anyone else-have to tap it?
"Hola?" Cletus's voice came on the line.
Not this phone line, but his! Grner has a man-Comandante Habanzo, or something like that-in Argentine Internal Security. And Grner has him thinking that Clete is an American agent, which means he almost certainly will have tapped Clete's line. And if Grner's man hears about this conversation, then Grner will hear about it!
Shit!
"Is t
hat Lieutenant Frade?"
It's Peter. What the hell does he want?
"Former Lieutenant Frade, Hauptmann von Wachtstein. What can I do for you?''
"I am taking tea with two ladies, Teniente," Peter said. "The sisters Carzino-Cormano. At the Alvear Plaza. I thought you might care to join us."
He's drunk. What the hell is he doing with the Carzino-Cormano girls?
W E B Griffin - Honor 1 - Honor Bound Page 50
