For example, some improvised variations from normal procedures during his first solo cross-country flight in the Stearman brought him for the first time before a board of stern-faced Naval Aviators who were considering his possible expulsion from the program.
The flight plan called for him to fly from Saufley Field to an auxiliary field just across the Florida-Alabama border, shoot a touch-and-go, and then return to Saufley Field.
He did that. But he was also observed en route by a flight instructor who reported that Cadet Frade not only engaged in twenty minutes of unauthorized aerobatic maneuvers in the Stearman, but followed this outrageous deviation from his authorized flight plan by returning to Saufley Field via the Gulf Coast beaches, along which he flew at no more than 200 feet above the surf, while waving at female civilian sunbathers on the beach.
After his third appearance before the Elimination Board, Cadet Frade realized that any further infractions against the Navy’s Flight Regulations, particularly those involving unsafe flight maneuvers, would almost certainly keep him from receiving his wings of gold and second lieutenant’s commission.
No more infractions of any kind were laid against him during the rest of his Primary Flight Instruction, nor during Advanced Flight Training, nor—after he was rated a Naval Aviator and commissioned second lieutenant, USMCR— while undergoing the prescribed courses of instruction which saw him rated as an F4F ‘‘Wildcat’’ pilot.
Things changed slightly when he was assigned to VMF- 221 at Ewa, Territory of Hawaii. The Marine Air Group Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, greeted him there with a speech. Its most pertinent point developed the notion that now that Second Lieutenant Frade had learned to fly a Wildcat safely, it was his duty, before entering combat, to learn how far he personally ‘‘could push the Wildcat’s envelope.’’
‘‘The Envelope’’ was defined as the limits (in terms of speed, various maneuvers, stress, and so forth) to which the Navy Bureau of Aeronautics had determined the Wildcat could be safely subjected.
Second Lieutenant Frade accepted this order with enthusiasm. By the time he landed his Wildcat on Guadalcanal on the just-captured airfield—not even yet named ‘‘Henderson ’’ after a Marine aviator who had died in the Battle of Midway—he had proved to himself that the Wildcat’s actual envelope permitted, among other things, close-to-the-ground maneuvering at speeds far beyond those given in the official BUAIR envelope.
The day after First Lieutenant Frade became an ace by downing five enemy aircraft in his Wildcat, he was summoned before Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins, the Marine Air Group Commander. Colonel Dawkins told him he had seen his flight records, which included civilian flying experience, and reported that Cletus H. Frade had passed the Civil Aviation Administration’s Flight Examination in a Piper Cub; and had received his private pilot’s license in the second week of his fourteenth year; and had subsequently acquired 930 hours of time in the Piper Aircraft Company’s Model J-4.
Colonel Dawkins then explained that there had been unexpected losses of Marine aviators, mostly Flying Sergeants, who had been flying the First Marine Division’s Piper Cubs, aircraft that were used for artillery spotting, liaison, and aerial ambulance purposes. Dawkins then asked him if he would be willing to fly a Piper Cub until replacement pilots could be brought to Guadalcanal from the States.
On one hand, stepping down from a Wildcat to a Cub was obviously beneath the dignity of a Marine fighter pilot; but on the other, Lieutenant Frade had been in the Corps long enough to understand that when a lieutenant is asked to do something by a lieutenant colonel, the expected response is ‘‘Aye, aye, Sir.’’
Before strapping General Rawson into the backseat of the Argentine Army Air Service Light Aircraft Type 42 #6, Major Frade’s last significant flight experience in a Piper Cub had been to locate, and then drop messages and essential supplies, to the First Raider Battalion operating in mountainous jungle terrain some fifty miles behind Japanese lines.
General Rawson, of course, knew nothing of any of this. All he knew was that the Cub he was flying in now was being flown in a different manner—a frighteningly different manner—than he was accustomed to.
For one thing—because Clete had decided the best way to find the Argentine Navy’s School of Naval Engineering was to find and then fly down Avenida del Libertador— their altitude between Campo de Mayo and the place where the Navy was holding up the progress of the First Infantry Regiment never exceeded 300 feet and was often considerably less. Frade often flew the Cub around—rather than over—brick smokestacks and other high structures in his flight path.
For another, when they approached the School of Naval Engineering, without really thinking about it, Clete began to move the Cub in a manner that would make the Cub a more difficult target for anyone inclined to shoot at it.
For another, General Rawson’s orders to Clete had been to land on the soccer fields adjacent to the School of Naval Engineering, ‘‘if possible.’’ In his mind, he would evaluate the situation, the location of the opposing elements, and then authorize Frade to determine, as Step Two, whether he could safely land the airplane on the field.
Clete took one look at the soccer field, decided it was obviously possible to land there—all the Navy weaponry, mostly light machine-gun positions, were emplaced to oppose the First Infantry’s movement down Avenida del Libertador —and did so.
By the time he taxied back to a takeoff position, three officers of the First Infantry—one of them had actually unsheathed his sword—galloped onto the soccer field to investigate the astonishing landing of an airplane.
General Rawson climbed out of the Cub, discussed the situation with the officers, and issued his orders. After leaving a few men in place facing the Navy, the regiment would bypass the School of Engineering and resume its march down Avenida del Libertador.
When they had moved far enough down Libertador so that simultaneous movement of the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry would bring both columns to the Casa Rosada at the same time, the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry would be ordered to resume their march.
‘‘I am now going to reconnoiter by air,’’ General Rawson announced, ‘‘to ascertain the exact location of the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry.’’
He then climbed back into the Cub.
The First Infantry officers saluted and began to trot back to their troops.
General Rawson laid a hand on Clete’s shoulder, and Clete turned to look at him.
‘‘Is there any way we can communicate when we are up in the air?’’
Clete showed General Rawson the earphones and microphone —with which he had mistakenly believed General Rawson would be familiar—and Rawson put them on.
‘‘You may depart,’’ Rawson ordered.
Clete pushed the throttle forward and took off. Once they were airborne he started to look for the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry, which he had been told were stopped at Pueyrredón and Córdoba.
‘‘It will take twenty minutes for the orders to be passed and for the First Infantry to make any measurable progress, ’’ Rawson announced over the intercom. ‘‘Would it be possible, without extraordinary risk, to observe what’s going on at the Casa Rosada?’’
‘‘Yes, Sir,’’ Clete said, and for the next twenty minutes Clete flew back and forth over Buenos Aires.
As he flew down Avenida Córdoba he noticed a man in a strange uniform, and he was almost convinced it was Peter von Wachtstein. When they flew over Plaza de Mayo, they saw an overturned bus in flames, and he could see the faces of people inside Casa Rosada watching it burn.
Twenty-five minutes after taking off from the soccer fields, General Rawson decided the First Infantry had moved far enough so that the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry could be ordered to resume their march.
Clete flew down Avenida Córdoba again and dropped the order to the First Cavalry and the Second Infantry to get moving.
Thirty minutes after tha
t, as both columns converged onto the Plaza de Mayo, white flags—probably sheets, Clete decided—appeared in the windows of the Casa Rosada.
‘‘General, you want me to try to land down there? I’m a little worried about that burning bus. I don’t know what debris’s liable to be on the street.’’
‘‘You mean land in Plaza de Mayo?’’ General Rawson replied, a touch of incredulity in his voice. And then, without giving Clete a chance to reply, he went on: ‘‘I think we should return now to Campo de Mayo. It would be more fitting if General Ramírez and I accepted the capitulation together and arrive at Casa Rosada together. By automobile. With a suitable escort.’’
On the fifteen-minute flight back to Campo de Mayo, General Rawson pushed his intercom mike switch one more time.
‘‘I think I should tell you, my friend, that when your father talked about all the amazing things one could do with a small airplane, I was one of those who simply didn’t believe him. How nice it is that his son should be the one to prove us all wrong.’’
[THREE] The Officers’ Casino Campo de Mayo Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1845 19 April 1943
Teniente Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Martín rolled up the curved driveway to the Officers’ Casino in the chauffeur-driven official Mercedes assigned to the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Security of the Ministry of National Defense.
During the day there had been well over one hundred proclamations issued in the name of the Governing Council of the Provisional Government of the Argentine Republic. Of these, three personally issued by the President had a direct effect on Teniente Coronel Martín:
El Almirante Francisco de Montoya, Chief of the BIS, had been relieved of his duties, placed on leave, and would be retired.
Until a successor to Almirante de Montoya was named, Teniente Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Martín would assume the duties of Chief, BIS.
Teniente Coronel Alejandro Bernardo Martín was brevetted Coronel until further orders.
Coronel Juan Domingo Perón wanted Montoya dismissed from the service and placed under house arrest. But Martín prevailed against him. Martín argued before General Rawson and General Ramírez (who retained his post as Minister of War) that Montoya had done his duty to Argentina as he had seen it and had taken or not taken a number of actions that had benefited the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos and the execution of OUTLINE BLUE.
Martín also refused permanent appointment as the Chief of BIS. The offer was colored, he believed, by emotion on the part of General Rawson, who would later come to regret his impulsiveness. He also believed the appointment of another admiral to the post would go a long way toward pouring oil on the troubled waters that now existed between the Argentine Armada and the Argentine Army.
On the other hand, Martín was rather sure that his brevet promotion to Coronel would be made permanent within the next few days. As a Coronel known to have both the ear and the gratitude of the President and the Minister of War, he would have no trouble dealing with the new Chief, BIS, no matter who that might be.
The sandbag machine-gun emplacements in front of the Casino were still there, but the weapons and their crews were gone. So were the machine guns that had earlier been visible in upper-floor windows of the building, and the guards who had been stationed at the Casino’s doors.
General Ramírez was now back in his office at the Edi ficio Libertador—Martín had just come from there—and the maps that had been hung in the early hours of the morning on the movable wall of the Main Dining Room were now hanging in the Situation Room in the Edificio Libertador.
The Officers’ Casino of Campo de Mayo was now just that again.
Martín marched through the door of the club—he was in uniform, still bearing the badges of a teniente coronel. Perhaps, he thought, there will one day be a brass plaque affixed to the wall, commemorating the use of the Casino as the headquarters of the coup d’état. But perhaps not. It might be better not to have such an historical marker. It might be better if the coup d’état, and the reasons for it, and the deaths of Argentine soldiers and sailors it caused, just faded from memory.
As soon as he was in the lobby, he saw Major Cletus H. Frade, of the norteamericano Office of Strategic Services. Frade, who had obviously and understandably been waiting for him, rose out of a leather-upholstered armchair and started walking toward him, closely followed by Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez, Retired.
I wonder, Martín thought somewhat unkindly, if the old soldier thinks Frade needs protection in the men’s room and follows him in there?
‘‘Ah, Mayor Frade,’’ Martín said, smiling and putting out his hand. ‘‘I understand that you have been flying our new President around.’’
‘‘That was twelve hours ago,’’ Clete said, ‘‘and since then I have been sitting around here with my . . .’’ He stopped himself just in time from completing the rest of the sentence that came to his lips; it had to do with the insertion of the short thick opposable digit of his hand into his anal orifice. He finished, ‘‘. . . nothing to do.’’
Martín’s smile faded but did not entirely disappear.
‘‘I don’t know if there’s dancing in the streets or not,’’ Clete went on. ‘‘But I just heard General Rawson on the radio delivering a speech from the balcony of the Casa Rosada, which suggests to me the coup d’état was successful. ’’
I know what’s bothering him: his Sergeant Ettinger. I don’t want to break that bad news to him here, like this.
‘‘And so it has been,’’ Martín said. ‘‘I was about to have a drink. I would be honored if you would join me.’’
‘‘I’m not sure I should have a drink,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I might say something rude with just a little alcohol in me.’’
‘‘Please,’’ Martín said. ‘‘I will buy. It is a custom in our Army for newly promoted officers to buy drinks for their friends. And the invitation of course includes you, Suboficial Mayor.’’
‘‘You got promoted?’’
‘‘Are you all that surprised?’’
‘‘No. Not at all,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I didn’t mean to be so ..."
‘‘But you have been unable to understand why you have been . . . asked to stay here . . . when it became apparent that we have a new government?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Clete said. ‘‘And ‘asked’ isn’t the word.’’
He pointed to a major, still in field uniform, who was watching them.
Martín gestured for the major to join them.
‘‘Señor Frade, Mayor,’’ Martín said, ‘‘will no longer require your protection. You may consider yourself relieved of that responsibility.’’
"Sí, mi Coronel,’’ the Major replied, and then after a moment’s hesitation offered his hand to Clete. ‘‘I hope, Señor, you can understand my position.’’
‘‘No hard feelings, Major,’’ Clete said, taking his hand. ‘‘I know who gave you your orders.’’
‘‘I considered it necessary,’’ Martín said, acknowledging he had given the orders. ‘‘Not only because I wanted to have a word with you before you took off . . .’’
‘‘It’s too late to take off,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I don’t want to try to land that Lockheed at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo at night.’’
‘‘. . . but for other reasons as well,’’ Martín concluded. ‘‘Will you have a drink with me? I’ll explain.’’
‘‘Yes, of course. Thank you. And congratulations, mi Coronel. It’s a well-deserved promotion.’’
‘‘For saying that, I will buy you two drinks.’’
He touched Clete’s arm and propelled him to the bar, which was crowded with the successful members of the Revolution of 1943 not needed at the Edificio Libertador.
‘‘Would you bring us a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, please? And three glasses?’’ Martín ordered.
When it was delivered, he waved the barman away, poured the whiskey himself, and handed Clete and Enrico their glasses.
‘‘If yo
u will indulge me further, gentlemen, I have three toasts to offer.’’
‘‘Don’t take too long,’’ Clete said.
‘‘To the new government of Argentina,’’ Martín said seriously.
Clete raised his glass.
‘‘Hear, hear,’’ he said.
‘‘To the officers and other ranks of the Argentine Armada and Army on both sides of this unfortunately necessary change of government who died for their country today.’’
Clete’s face showed that the toast surprised him, but after a moment he said, ‘‘Hear, hear,’’ raised his glass, and took another sip of his whiskey.
‘‘And to Technical Sergeant David Ettinger, United States Army. I am very sorry indeed, Mayor Frade, to have to tell you that he also died in the service of his country.’’
‘‘Oh, shit,’’ Clete said. He looked at his half-empty glass of scotch, drained it, and then looked at Martín.
‘‘When did that happen? How?’’
‘‘Excuse me, mi Coronel,’’ Enrico said. ‘‘Did you say Ettinger is dead?’’
‘‘I’m afraid so, Suboficial Mayor,’’ Martín said, then looked at Clete. ‘‘I received the word just two hours ago. When the telephones to Montevideo were restored. Sergeant Ettinger’s body was found on the beach at Carrasco two days ago. In the morning. He had been stabbed to death.’’
Martín saw that Clete’s face was white, and his lips bloodless.
With either pain or rage or both. This is not the time to tell him Ettinger was mutilated. Or how.
‘‘By party or parties unknown, right?’’ Clete asked bitterly.
‘‘My sources tell me the murder has all the marks of a killing for pay.’’
‘‘And we know who paid, don’t we? That goddamned Goltz!’’
‘‘ ‘Goltz,’ Señor Clete?’’ Enrico asked.
‘‘That German SS Colonel, Enrico. He ordered Ettinger’s murder, and he got it. He’s the same sonofabitch who ordered my father killed. I’ll get that sonofabitch, somehow!’’
‘‘I understand your feelings, Frade,’’ Martín said, ‘‘but it would help nothing if you took any—’’
Blood and Honor Page 66
