Honor Bound

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Mi Capitán,” Saverno said. “El Capitán Schirmer is on the bridge. Would you care to join him?”

  “Hola, Bernardo!” Schirmer called down loudly. “Come on up!”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Gradny-Sawz asked.

  “Claudio, may I use the mess?” Peter asked.

  “Of course, Peter. I’ll send the steward with coffee and whatever.”

  “Gracias, amigo.”

  Peter gestured to show the way.

  “Will you follow me, please, gentlemen?”

  He led them to the mess.

  “I was led to believe, Herr Hauptmann,” Gradny-Sawz opened the conversation, “that you have been invested with the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. May I ask why you are not wearing it?”

  “I wasn’t aware this was a formal occasion.”

  “It is a very formal occasion, Herr Hauptmann,” Oberst Grüner said dryly.

  “And can you get into a proper uniform?” Gradny-Sawz asked.

  “By proper, mein Herr, I gather you mean winter?”

  “The Colonel commanding the Husares de Pueyrredón,” Colonel Grüner said, “was kind enough to advise me the uniform of the day for the ceremony on the dock will be the winter dress uniform.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”

  “A squadron of the Husares, plus a military band, and a delegation of Argentine officials, military and civilian, will be on the dock,” Grüner went on, “to accept the remains of Hauptmann Duarte from your custody. We will accompany them from the dock to the late Hauptmann Duarte’s home. Here is the schedule we have been given. Do you speak Spanish?”

  He handed Peter two sheets of paper stapled together.

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” Peter repeated.

  There was a vibration as the engines engaged.

  “Following which,” Gradny-Sawz said, “you will be taken to the Frade Guest House. Until the ceremonies are completed, you will reside there as the guest of Colonel Jorge Guillermo Frade, uncle of the late Hauptmann Frade, and former colonel commanding the Husares de Pueyrredón. I wish to speak to you about that.”

  “Oh?”

  “It is a singular courtesy on the part of the Frade family to you. Your conduct during that period is of great importance, if you take my meaning.”

  In other words, I am not to get drunk and piss all over the carpet, right?

  “I understand.”

  “Though it is his custom to have newly assigned members of the embassy staff as guests in his home, under these circumstances, Ambassador Graf von Lutzenberger will not be able to share his home with you. He has asked me to express his regret.”

  “That is very gracious of the Ambassador,” Peter said.

  “In other words, you will be at the service of the Frade family tonight and tomorrow,” Oberst Grüner said. “We don’t know what plans, if any, they have for you. But if they have made plans, and you were not available, there is a question of bad manners.”

  “I understand, Herr Oberst.”

  “And what plans have you made for the removal of the late Hauptmann Duarte’s remains from this ship?” Gradny-Sawz asked.

  “I believe el Capitán Schirmer will remove them from the hold with a crane and lower them onto the dock,” Peter said, with a straight face.

  He thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in Colonel Grüner’s eyes.

  “I don’t know how long it will take us to reach the dock,” Gradny-Sawz said, Peter’s subtle sarcasm having escaped him, “but may I suggest that you change into a proper uniform, including the Knight’s Cross, Herr Hauptmann?”

  The Husares de Pueyrredón were mounted on absolutely beautiful horses and looked as if they were about to charge into Bosnia-Herzegovina and lop off rebellious heads with their sabers, or impale rebellious bodies on their lances, thus keeping peace in Emperor Franz-Josef’s domain.

  The Army band, not nearly so ornately uniformed as the Husares, played “Oid, mortales” (“Hear, O Mortals”—the Argentinean national anthem) as the casket was lowered off the Belgrano onto a horse-drawn artillery caisson. Salutes were exchanged between German and Argentinean officers, and then the official party formed up behind the caisson.

  With the drums of the band beating out the Argentinean equivalent of “slow march,” the procession marched off the dock and into the streets of Buenos Aires, with the cavalry bringing up the rear. Policemen halted traffic. Pedestrians stopped and faced the street as the procession marched by—some of them respectfully removing their hats, and most of them crossing themselves.

  It was a long walk to the Avenida Alvear, and it was almost brutally hot. First Secretary Gradny-Sawz, Peter noticed with some pleasure, was not only sweat-soaked, but had not managed to avoid stepping into the horse dung left by the six animals drawing the caisson.

  They had some trouble passing the caisson through the gate at the Duarte mansion—the lead horse tried several times to rear. But finally the caisson was in place, and eight Husares—almost certainly officers, Peter decided, although he could not read Argentinean insignia—unstrapped the casket, and struggling under its weight, carried it into the foyer of the mansion.

  The official delegation followed. A man and a woman stood just inside the door, with a rank of servants behind them. The woman was in mourning black, broken only with a strand of very large pearls, her face concealed behind a veil.

  A short fat officer who looked almost ludicrous in his Husares uniform was ahead of Peter in the line. When he reached the couple, he said, “Señor Duarte, Señora de Duarte, I have the honor to present Capitán Freiherr von Wachtstein of the German Air Force, who had the sad duty of bringing Capitán Duarte from Germany.”

  Duarte’s father shook his hand limply and said, “How do you do?”

  “May I extend the condolences of the Luftwaffe and the German people on your loss?” Peter said.

  “Thank you,” the father said.

  “My son is now home, thanks to you. Captain,” the mother said. “And with the Blessed Jesus and all the angels in his heavenly home.”

  Peter felt like crying.

  You dumb shit, he thought angrily, you left this to go fly a Storch and be a hero at Stalingrad? It wasn’t even your goddamned war!

  The short fat man tugged at his arm and led him away.

  “I am Coronel Alejandro Sahovaler,” he said. “I have the honor of commanding the Husares de Pueyrredón.”

  “A sus órdenes, mi Coronel.”

  “El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, uncle to the late Capitán Duarte, has arranged for you to be put up at the Frade family guest house. Unfortunately he had pressing business at his estancia, and could not be here today. Señora de Duarte telephoned me this morning to ask me to take you to the guest house. I was of course honored to be of service. May I do that now?”

  “You’re very gracious, mi Coronel,” Peter said, and then spoke what came into his mind: “My luggage? It’s still aboard the ship.”

  “It has been taken to the Avenida Libertador house,” Sahovaler said. “It is no problem.”

  Well, in that case, I suppose that nobody closely examined my luggage and found the money.

  “May I have a minute to speak with el Coronel Grüner, mi Coronel?”

  “Of course.”

  Grüner was standing with Gradny-Sawz. Grüner and Sahovaler knew each other, while Gradny-Sawz had to be introduced. Peter explained that Sahovaler had offered to drive him to the guest house. The announcement visibly pleased Gradny-Sawz.

  “I will be in touch, Hauptmann von Wachtstein,” Gradny-Sawz said. “If not sooner, within a day or two.”

  “Thank you,” Peter replied.

  Sahovaler had an open Mercedes sedan—an Army car—waiting outside. The driver was wearing a Husares uniform, complete to bearskin hat. They rode regally from Avenida Alvear to Avenida Libertador. On the way, Coronel Sahovaler told Hauptmann von Wachtstein that he was sure el Coronel Frade would be in touch with him very shortly to make sure
he was not left alone in the Guest House.

  [TWO]

  Coronel Sahovaler was wrong. Since el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade had no intention whatever of participating in the nonsense on the pier, or to put on a hot dress uniform to march through horse droppings on the streets of Buenos Aires in the heat of summer, and since Cletus had “business” in Punta del Este—Frade hoped this was nothing more dangerous than meeting young women in brief bathing costumes—he had indeed found pressing business at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.

  It happened to be legitimate. He was entertaining overnight el Coronel Ricardo López, commander of the 2nd Regiment of Infantry. Wattersly had informed Frade that when he and Kleber talked with him, they were unable to move him off the fence. Wattersly suggested that Frade talk to him himself. Under the circumstances, he had had no choice but to go along.

  He would entertain López royally. And if there seemed to be an opportunity, he would reason with him himself. If that failed, the 2nd Regiment of Infantry would have to be placed in the Against column. There were only two columns, For and Against. If the 2nd Infantry went in the Against column, it would have to be neutralized.

  He also completely forgot that he had promised his sister to arrange to put up the German officer at the Guest House. Knowing her brother’s tendency to let promises slip his mind, Señora Beatrice de Duarte had called the Guest House and checked. When it turned out he had indeed forgotten, she asked Señora Pellano to take very good care of the young German officer who brought Dear Jorge back to Argentina. Then she called el Coronel Sahovaler to make sure he had a ride.

  [THREE]

  Customs Shed

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  2135 13 December 1942

  The plan to smuggle the walkie-talkies past customs was Tony’s. It was novel, simple, and it worked:

  “If you never saw one of these before,” Tony said, “the odds are that nobody here has.”

  “So?”

  “We’ll tell them they are portable radios that don’t work.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “We don’t try to hide them. We make believe we took them over there to listen to music on the beach.”

  Clete could think of no better way to bring the radios into Argentina. Besides, even if the ruse didn’t work and they confiscated the radios, it would divert attention from the “wooden” boxes loaded with straw chickens, ducks, and fish.

  They pried the AN/PRC-6 MOTOROLA CORP. CHICAGO, ILL. labels from the walkie-talkies; then they each put one of them on clear display in their luggage.

  The customs officer was fascinated with the radios, and very sympathetic. After he put a radio to his ear and heard only a hiss, he offered the professional opinion that they probably dropped them, or else got them wet on the beach.

  He pawed perfunctorily through the chickens, ducks, and fishes in the “wooden” boxes, smiled, and waved them through.

  “Buenas noches, Señores.”

  “Buenas noches,” Clete replied, and motioned for a porter to carry their luggage toward the taxi line. He carried one of the “wooden” boxes and Tony carried the other.

  As they walked toward the line, he asked Tony if he wanted to have dinner at the guest house, or else go out somewhere.

  “Thanks, no, Clete,” Tony replied. “What are we going to do with this stuff, now that we’ve got it?”

  “I’ll keep it,” Clete said. “That would probably be the safest thing.”

  “I was thinking that maybe you could give the radios to Ettinger. Maybe he can figure out what to do when the batteries go dead.”

  “Right.”

  “And I’d like to take the detonators. I want to take a good look at them, to make sure how much dry-cell juice I’m going to need.”

  “Good thinking. But we can drop the radios off at Ettinger’s apartment on the way to yours. And then we’ll drop the detonators at yours, and get some dinner.”

  “I think I’ll pass, Clete,” Tony said. “Unless you really want some company.”

  “Just an idea. I’ll bring the radios to David tomorrow.”

  “What I’m going to do, Clete,” Tony said, as if worried that he’d hurt Frade’s feelings, “is go find a church. Light a candle. Say ‘thank you.’ You want to come along?”

  “I think I’ll pass on that, Tony,” Clete said. “If I went to church, the steeple would fall off. But say ‘thank you’ for me, too, will you?”

  “I will,” Tony said, wondering if it was a sin for him to be glad Clete didn’t want to go to church with him. The church he had in mind was near the Ristorante Napoli. Afterward, he would drop in to the Ristorante Napoli for his dinner. She just might be there.

  Hell, she might even be in the church. Odds are that she’s Catholic, and nice Catholic girls go to church.

  They took their turn in the taxi line, and finally climbed into one. Clete told the driver to take them to Tony’s apartment on Avenida Corrientes.

  It was quarter past ten when the driver pulled up before the gate at 4730 Avenida Libertador. There were lights on over the drive and above the door, but the gates were closed, and the smaller pedestrian gate beside the vehicular gate was locked; he could see no light coming from the servants’ quarters. Since Señora Pellano had not known when to expect him, he presumed she had simply gone to bed.

  Finding the keys he needed, then wrestling with the ancient lock on the gate, and then carrying his luggage and—carefully—both “wooden” boxes from the cab to the front door took another five minutes.

  He paid the cabdriver, then moved everything inside the house.

  I’ll bring these boxes upstairs—duty first. I’ll take them apart, put the pieces on a shelf in one of my closets, and then I’ll come down here and have a very stiff drink. I was more afraid smuggling this stuff past customs than I let on.

  He was almost to the elevator when he heard, faintly, Beethoven’s Third Symphony on the radio or the phonograph. Then he saw a crack of light under the double doors to the library.

  Who the hell can that be? My father?

  He walked to it and pushed it open with his foot.

  A young man in a quilted, dark-red dressing gown was slumped in one of the armchairs, a cognac snifter resting on his chest. A cigar lay in the ashtray on the table beside him.

  Who the hell is this?

  “Buenas noches, Señor.”

  The young man was startled. He quickly put the cognac snifter on the table, rose, and smiled.

  “Buenas noches,” he said.

  “Yo soy Cletus Frade.”

  “El Coronel Frade?” the young man asked incredulously.

  “No,” Clete chuckled, “el Teniente Frade. El Coronel is my father.”

  The young man bowed and clicked his heels.

  “Mucho gusto, Teniente. Yo soy el Capitán Hans-Peter Freiherr von Wachtstein, de la Luftwaffe.”

  Holy shit! This must be the guy who brought the body from Germany. And you told him you were a lieutenant. Brilliant, Frade, fucking brilliant! He speaks Spanish perfectly.

  “Señor, please, Capitán. I am no longer a lieutenant. Better yet, please call me Clete.”

  “I’m called Peter,” von Wachtstein said, offering his hand. “Am I in your chair?”

  “Sit down,” Clete said.

  “The lady who runs this place told me to make myself at home. So she asked if it would be all right if she went to evening mass,” Peter said. “I took the liberty of coming down here and playing the phonograph, and helping myself to the cognac. Was that all right?”

  “The cognac is a fine idea. Give me a minute to take my things to my room, and I’ll join you.”

  “Let me help you.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “I would like to.”

  “Thank you.”

  Peter followed Clete back into the reception foyer and picked up the second “wooden” box.

  “Delightful,” he said, admiring the straw chickens, ducks, and fishes. “
For your children?”

  “I have no children that I know of,” Clete said as they stepped into the elevator.

  “I have none that I acknowledge,” Peter replied.

  They smiled at each other.

  “I was drinking when I bought these,” Clete said. “At the time it seemed like a splendid idea.”

  Peter chuckled.

  “Señora Pellano has a herd of grandchildren,” Clete said. “They will not go to waste.”

  “How nice for the grandchildren.”

  They put the “wooden” boxes inside the door to Clete’s apartment, then made a second trip with his luggage, and finally returned to the library.

  “It’s a beautiful and unusual, house,” Peter observed as Clete helped himself to the cognac.

  “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.

  Capitán 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 Capitán.”

  “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 Capitán,” 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 Germans on Christmas Eve. Do you suppose, as officers and gentlemen, that we might pretend it’s Christmas Eve? We’d only be off by a couple of weeks. Less.”