Blood and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  David

  Clete read it, and then looked at Pelosi.

  ‘‘I was going to Uruguay to look for him,’’ Pelosi said. ‘‘But the Chief said he thought I’d better wait until you got back.’’

  You ever hear about looking for a needle in a haystack, Tony?

  Delgano suddenly made an imperious waving ‘‘come here’’ motion in the direction of the tree line behind a hangar. A gaucho stepped out of the trees and walked quickly toward them.

  ‘‘Who’s that?’’ Chief Schultz asked.

  ‘‘I told both of you I didn’t want Ettinger to leave the estancia,’’ Clete said coldly.

  Looking about as uncomfortable as Tony and the Chief, the gaucho approached Delgano and almost came to attention.

  "Sí, Señor?’’

  ‘‘The norteamericano?’’

  ‘‘He left the estancia three nights ago, mi Capitán.’’

  ‘‘We know that. Where is he?’’ Delgano demanded impatiently.

  ‘‘He took the car ferry to Montevideo that same morning, mi Capitán.’’

  ‘‘You had people on him all the way to the ferry?’’

  "Sí, Señor.’’

  ‘‘And presumably the borders are being watched? We would know if he has returned?’’

  "Sí, Señor.’’

  ‘‘Presumably, mi Mayor,’’ Delgano said, ‘‘Sergeant Ettinger is in Montevideo. I did not have authority to send any of my men across the border.’’

  ‘‘You tell me what you want me to do, Mr. Frade,’’ the Chief said.

  ‘‘I don’t know what the hell to do,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘I can be in Montevideo in the morning, if I leave now,’’ the Chief said.

  ‘‘We don’t know where the hell he is in Montevideo,’’ Clete said. ‘‘If he got that far before the Germans got to him.’’

  ‘‘Clete, I’m sorry,’’ Tony said.

  ‘‘You goddamned well should be, Tony!’’

  Jumping on Tony’s ass isn’t going to do any good. The sonofabitch in this is Ettinger himself.

  If he gets his throat cut, it’s his own goddamn fault!

  I don’t mean that.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  Oh, yeah!

  ‘‘Captain Ashton and his team, and the radar, are in the hangar,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Get them and their stuff out of here. Our priority is to get that radar in place and set up.’’

  ‘‘What do we do about Dave?’’ Tony asked.

  ‘‘I’ll deal with Dave,’’ Clete said. ‘‘You two make yourself useful to Captain Ashton.’’

  ‘‘Aye, aye, Sir,’’ the Chief said.

  ‘‘I’m sorry, Clete,’’ Tony said.

  ‘‘You said that,’’ Clete said somewhat unkindly, and then turned to Delgano. ‘‘I have to make a telephone call,’’ he said. ‘‘It won’t take long.’’

  Delgano was obviously curious, but asked no questions.

  Clete called the office number, the first of the three numbers Leibermann had given him.

  The man who answered the telephone did so by reciting the number called in Spanish.

  ‘‘This is Cowboy,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I need to talk to him right now.’’

  ‘‘Can he call you back?’’ the man said, still speaking Spanish.

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Hold on,’’ the man said, now in English.

  A long ninety seconds later, Milton Leibermann came on the line.

  ‘‘So how’s things out in the country, Tex?’’

  ‘‘Ettinger is in Uruguay. Probably Montevideo.’’

  ‘‘I thought he planned to stay in the country?’’

  ‘‘So did I. Do you have any friends in Uruguay who could be useful?’’

  ‘‘You’re not going over there yourself?’’

  ‘‘I wish I could, but I can’t get away.’’

  ‘‘You wouldn’t want to tell me why not?’’

  ‘‘You remember that party we talked about?’’

  ‘‘The big one? All the important people?’’

  ‘‘Right. I’ve been invited. Under the circumstances, I can’t turn down the invitation.’’

  ‘‘You will tell me all about the party, won’t you, Tex? Just as soon as you can?’’

  ‘‘What are we doing here, making a deal?’’

  ‘‘You could put it that way.’’

  ‘‘OK, Milton. Deal.’’

  ‘‘Just for the record, Tex, I would have gone anyway,’’ Leibermann said, and the phone went dead.

  [THREE] 2035th U.S. Army Air Corps Support Wing Pôrto Alegre, Brazil 1325 18 April 1943

  The pilot of the Douglas R5-D took his microphone from its cradle on the control yoke, checked to see that his transmitter was set on the correct frequency, and depressed the TRANSMIT switch.

  ‘‘Pôrto Alegre, Navy Seven Niner Niner Seven.’’

  ‘‘Go ahead, Seven Niner Niner Seven.’’

  ‘‘Niner Seven passing through seven thousand estimate twenty miles northwest your station. Approach and landing, please.’’

  ‘‘Niner Seven, you are cleared for a straight-in approach to Runway One Seven. I say again One Seven. Ceiling and visibility unlimited. The winds are from the south at fifteen, gusting to twenty. The barometer is two niner niner. Report when passing through five thousand and when you have the field in sight.’’

  ‘‘Niner Seven understands One Seven.’’

  ‘‘Niner Seven, that is a Roger.’’

  ‘‘Pôrto Allegre, please advise your base commander we have a Code Six aboard.’’

  ‘‘Wilco, Niner Seven.’’

  The staff car—a 1942 Chevrolet sedan—assigned to Colonel J. B. Wallace, U.S. Army Air Corps, stopped at the side of the Base Operations building. The driver, a young, crew-cutted sergeant, jumped out. He went quickly to the trunk and removed a checkered flag rolled around a length of aluminum pipe. Unrolling the flag as he walked, he went quickly to the front of the Chevrolet and inserted the pipe into a holder welded to the bumper. The purpose of the checkered flag was to increase the chances that pilots of taxiing aircraft would see the Chevrolet and not run over it.

  Then he quickly slipped back behind the wheel, drove onto the tarmac in front of Base Ops, and waited for the Navy Transport that had just landed to turn off Runway One Seven and taxi to the Base Operations building.

  After it did that, ground crewmen pushed a flight of stairs up to the door of the aircraft.

  ‘‘Drive over there,’’ Colonel Wallace ordered.

  ‘‘Yes, Sir.’’

  The sergeant drove to the rolling stairs, then jumped out and opened the rear door for Colonel Wallace.

  Colonel Wallace tugged at the skirt of his green tunic, adjusted his leather-brimmed cap—to signify his status as an active pilot, he had removed the crown stiffener from it—tucked his riding crop under his arm, and stood near the foot of the stairs to officially greet the Code Six passenger that Naval Air Transport Command flight 404, Panama -Brazil, had reported aboard.

  A Code Six was a Navy captain, or an Army (or Marine) colonel. Colonel Wallace believed that an officer who had achieved such a high rank, and was bearing the enormous responsibility that went with it, was entitled to the courtesy of being greeted by someone of equal rank when arriving at a military base. If an incoming aircraft, when asking for landing permission, did not volunteer the information that they did—or did not—have colonels or general (or flag) officers aboard, the Pôrto Alegre tower was instructed to inquire.

  The passenger door—within the much wider cargo door—opened, and a Marine colonel stepped out onto the landing at the head of the stairs. He immediately turned to the aircraft, and someone inside handed him two leather suitcases.

  ‘‘Take care of the Colonel’s luggage,’’ Wallace ordered, and his driver went quickly up the stairs, saluted, took the suitcases, and motioned for the Colonel to descend the stairs.

  Wallac
e stepped to the foot of the stairs, removed his riding crop from under his left arm, and touched the brim of his cap with it.

  ‘‘Welcome to Pôrto Alegre,’’ he said with a smile.

  The Marine colonel returned the salute. He wore, as Marines did—Wallace thought it was a fine idea—the silver eagles denoting his rank both on the epaulets of his tunic and on the points of his collar.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ he said.

  The Marine colonel was not wearing any ribbons to indicate where he had served, or what, if any, decorations for valor or outstanding performance he had earned. Colonel Wallace thought the wearing of ribbons should be mandatory, and he did not like to hear them referred to depreciatingly as fruit salad.

  ‘‘I’m Colonel J. B. Wallace, commanding,’’ Wallace announced.

  ‘‘Just the man I’m looking for,’’ the Marine said. ‘‘My name is Graham.’’

  ‘‘How may I be of service, Colonel?’’

  ‘‘You can point me in the direction of the nearest head,’’ Graham said. ‘‘And then I would like a few minutes of your time.’’

  ‘‘I guess the Officers’ Club is as close as anyplace,’’ Wallace said, gesturing toward his car. ‘‘Unless you would prefer, Colonel, to let me have you set up in the VIP quarters? ’’

  ‘‘The Club would be fine, thank you,’’ Graham said.

  ‘‘Can I still find something to eat here?’’ Graham asked when he had come out of the restroom and joined Wallace at a table in the barroom.

  ‘‘Of course,’’ Wallace said, signaling to a waiter.

  ‘‘All I had on the plane was a bologna sandwich and a banana,’’ Graham said.

  ‘‘Well, we’ll get you something here—the beef is invariably good—and then we’ll take you to my office and settle your paperwork with my adjutant. How long will you be with us, Colonel?’’

  ‘‘Not long,’’ Graham said. ‘‘I don’t think I’ll have to get involved with your adjutant.’’

  ‘‘Excuse me?’’

  Graham reached in his pocket, didn’t find what he was looking for, and then searched his other pockets until he did. He handed Wallace a somewhat battered envelope containing a single sheet of paper.

  THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF THE PENTAGON WASHINGTON, D.C.

  1 January 1943

  Subject: Letter Orders

  To: Colonel A.F. Graham, USMCR

  Office of Strategic Services

  Washington, D.C.1. You will proceed to such destinations as your duties require by U.S. Government or civilian motor, rail, sea or air transportation as is most expedient. JCS Travel Priority AAAAAA-1 is assigned. The wearing of civilian attire is authorized.

  2. United States Military or Naval commands are authorized and directed to provide you with whatever assistance of any kind you may require to accomplish your mission(s).

  By order of The Chairman, The Joint Chiefs of Staff:

  OFFICIAL:

  Matthew J. Markham

  Matthew J. Markham

  Lieutenant General, USAAC

  J-3 , JCS

  ‘‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen any orders like that,’’ Colonel Wallace said, and then blurted: ‘‘We had some of your people in here recently, I expect you know.’’

  ‘‘That was going to be my first question to you,’’ Graham said, and then noticed the waiter was standing by the table. ‘‘You say the beef is good?’’

  ‘‘Excellent.’’

  ‘‘I would like a steak, a New York strip, medium rare. French fried potatoes and a sliced tomato. Could I get that?’’

  The waiter nodded, then looked at Colonel Wallace.

  ‘‘Just coffee, please,’’ he said.

  The waiter nodded and left.

  ‘‘You said you ‘had,’ past tense, some of my people in here?’’ Graham asked.

  ‘‘Yes, we did. A Marine Major Frade and an Army Captain Ashton, plus four men he identified to me as commissioned officers.’’

  ‘‘Did Major Frade pick up the airplane?’’ Graham asked, and then interrupted himself. ‘‘Colonel, there was some confusion about the type airplane. What’s the difference between a C-45 and a C-56?"

  ‘‘A C-45 is what we call a ‘light twin,’ ’’ Wallace explained. ‘‘The C-56 is the Lockheed Lodestar transport.’’

  ‘‘The Lockheed Lodestar? The airliner?’’

  Wallace nodded.

  ‘‘Major Frade . . . could fly the Lodestar?’’

  ‘‘He flew it out of here,’’ Wallace said, ‘‘under somewhat unusual circumstances.’’

  ‘‘Which were?’’

  ‘‘He asked permission to make some practice landings,’’ Wallace said. ‘‘Which I of course granted. I also volunteered to accompany him—I have a good many hours in large, multiengine aircraft and believed I could impart some of my experience. He declined my offer.’’

  ‘‘He did?’’

  ‘‘He then proceeded to the end of the runway,’’ Wallace said, warming to his subject, ‘‘where he loaded aboard what I presume were the other OSS personnel, and took off. Against specific orders from the tower to abort his takeoff and return to Base Operations. He did not return. I’m afraid I have no idea where he is now, or the airplane.’’

  ‘‘What makes you think he took aboard the other people? ’’

  ‘‘They have not been seen since,’’ Wallace said. ‘‘This places me in a very difficult position, Colonel, with the Brazilian authorities.’’

  ‘‘How’s that?’’

  ‘‘I had arranged with the appropriate authorities for them to clear the airplane through Customs, and to commence an international flight.’’

  ‘‘Nobody told you to do that. All you were supposed to do was paint it red and paint some numbers on it. You did do that?’’

  ‘‘Yes, of course.’’

  ‘‘When did Major Frade leave here?’’

  Colonel Wallace took his notebook from his pocket, flipped through it, and found what he was looking for.

  ‘‘At 2126 hours 17 April,’’ he said. He read further: ‘‘After ignoring four orders from the tower specifically ordering him to abort his takeoff and return to Base Operations. ’’

  ‘‘Just as soon as I see Major Frade, Colonel, I’ll ask him why he did what you said he did.’’

  ‘‘How would you suggest I deal with the Brazilian authorities, Colonel? They are still waiting to clear the aircraft. ’’

  ‘‘I’ll tell you what happened to that aircraft, Colonel,’’ Graham said. ‘‘The right engine was about to fall off.’’

  ‘‘Excuse me?’’

  ‘‘You tell the Brazilian authorities you discovered the right engine of that airplane was about to fall off. Faulty bolts, or something. You have ordered replacement parts from the United States. Until they arrive, obviously, the airplane isn’t going anywhere. When it’s ready to go, you will get in touch with them again.’’

  ‘‘That would be the uttering of a statement I know to be false.’’

  ‘‘Yes, it would,’’ Graham said.

  ‘‘I couldn’t do that without written authority,’’ Wallace said.

  ‘‘Of course you couldn’t,’’ Graham said. ‘‘I’ll be happy to give you written authority. And then I suggest you prepare a full report of the entire incident, including this conversation, and forward it directly to General Markham at the Joint Chiefs.’’

  Colonel Wallace considered that. From the look on his face, Graham concluded that he found the suggestion satisfactory. Or almost so.

  ‘‘What will I say to the Brazilians if they should ask, some time from now, whatever happened to the aircraft?’’

  The waiter delivered Colonel Graham’s food.

  Graham cut a piece of steak, chewed it appreciatively, and then replied:

  ‘‘Why don’t you ask General Markham what to tell the Brazilians? When you write him?’’

  Wallace considered that for a long moment, then nodded his head.<
br />
  ‘‘I think that should do it,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I’m sure it will,’’ Graham said.

  ‘‘And how may I be of service to you, Colonel?’’

  ‘‘I have to get to Buenos Aires as soon as possible,’’ Graham said. ‘‘What would you suggest?’’

  ‘‘The simplest way would probably be for you to go to Río de Janeiro and catch the Panagra flight. They usually have seats—people get off in Río de Janeiro, and there are few people who fly from Río to Buenos Aires.’’

  I flew to Pôrto Alegre on the Navy transport because it was considerably faster than Panagra’s sea planes. Now this idiot is suggesting I fly north to Río de Janeiro to try to get a seat on tomorrow’s plane, which is the same one I didn’t want to board in Miami.

  ‘‘That’ll take too long. Can you get me from here to Montevideo?’’

  ‘‘It would be difficult.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘It generally takes about four days—sometimes longer— to obtain permission from the Uruguayan authorities to land an American military aircraft in Uruguay.’’

  ‘‘There’s an airstrip, I have been told, in Chuí, on the Brazilian-Uruguayan border,’’ Graham said. ‘‘From Chuí, on the other side of the border, it’s only a hundred seventy- five miles to Montevideo. Can you put me in there?’’

  ‘‘Are you sure there’s an airstrip in . . . where did you say?’’

  ‘‘Chuí,’’ Graham said. ‘‘Yes, I’m sure.’’

  ‘‘Well, if there is, it would be a small airstrip. You’d have to go in by L-4—Piper Cub. I’ll look into it. When would you like to go?’’

  ‘‘As soon as I finish my lunch and change into civilian clothing,’’ Graham said.

  [FOUR] Visiting Officers’ Quarters First Cavalry Regiment Campo de Mayo Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1515 18 April 1943

  ‘‘Where are you?’’ Dorotéa Mallín demanded, by way of greeting, the moment she came on the line.

  ‘‘Don’t ask,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘What does that mean, ‘don’t ask’?’’

  ‘‘I can’t tell you, is what it means.’’

  ‘‘What am I supposed to tell Father Matthew?’’