Honor Bound

by W. E. B Griffin

  He remembered that he also had had a Christmas Eve, pre-luncheon beer the year before, aboard USS Saratoga. It had also been raining heavily, he recalled, a sudden rain squall that had come up quickly, and from which he had found shelter under the wing of one of the F2A-3 Brewster Buffaloes lashed to the Saratoga’s flight deck.

  Schultz, Second Lieutenant Charles A., USMCR, inevitably called “Dutch,” had suddenly appeared beside him, his khakis drenched by the rain. He was clutching something lumpy wrapped in a flight suit to his chest, and happily proclaimed, “Who says there’s no Santa Claus?”

  The lumps turned out to be two quart bottles of Budweiser beer, smuggled aboard at Pearl Harbor in defiance of Navy regulations.

  “Merry Christmas, Clete,” Dutch had said, handing him one of the bottles. They had pried the tops off on the undercarriage of the Buffalo.

  But it was beer, and even warm, proof that there was indeed a Santa Claus, for those who really believed.

  “Next year,” Dutch had said, raising his bottle in a toast, “Cold beer, at home!”

  It didn’t turn out that way, did it, Dutch?

  The next day, Christmas Day, we flew those outdated goddamned Buffaloes off the Saratoga onto Midway Island. And then we flew them against the Japs. A Buffalo was no match against a Zero. Every goddamned one of us was shot down.

  You never will get to go home, will you, Dutch? I got picked up, and you didn’t. THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON, SECOND LIEUTENANT CHARLES A. SCHULTZ, USMCR…

  And the circumstances under which I am “at home” are not quite the ones we had in mind when we had that fantasy, are they, Dutch?

  But this beer is cold, and this is a marvelously comfortable bed with clean sheets, and when, in the inevitable course of human events, I will have to let the beer out, it will be into a porcelain fixture in a marble floored bathroom, not into a foul smelling opening in a stinking compartment labelled, probably with unintentional humor, “Officer’s Head.”

  And I am alive, and in one piece, and there is a good deal to be said for that.

  At least, so far, I am alive and in one piece.

  And, in the sense that I am going to have a little Christmas Eve supper with my father, I am home.

  That little supper will probably consist of no more than eight or nine courses, served on fine china and dissected with monogrammed sterling silver. Last year, it was sort of turkey chopsuey, eaten off a stainless steel tray, with cranberry sauce atop the mashed potatoes. Or was it mashed potatoes dumped over the cranberry sauce?

  And if that sounds awful, I wonder what the boys on the ’Canal are having for Christmas this year?

  Stop being maudin, Clete, things are getting better.

  Without much effort, he thought of two prime examples:

  On the way to Buenos Aires, Enrico, literally riding shotgun beside him in the front seat of the Buick, worked out how to meet Pelosi and Ettinger without broadcasting everything they said to one another to Internal Security or the Germans.

  “Your problem, mi Teniente, is keeping the clowns and the Germans from hearing you. The clowns will of course be following you, and them, and they will have telephone surveillance on your line and theirs.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Mi Teniente, you take them for a ride in your automobile. The clowns will not be able to hear what you say, and it will embarrass them to have to be so obvious about following you.”

  “Just telephone them and say I’ll pick them up?”

  “No. Just set a time and place to meet them. The man who brings daily deliveries of agua mineral, vegetables, and meat to the house is a friend. He will carry messages safely past the clowns.”

  “When does he make his next delivery?”

  “Starting at three o’clock this afternoon. Three times a day.”

  “This is Christmas Eve.”

  “People need food and agua mineral on Christmas Eve,” Enrico said with a shrug.

  “You’ve got everything laid out, right? You’re pretty good at this, Enrico.”

  “I have learned much from your father, mi Teniente.”

  And then Clete himself worked out a temporary, partial solution to the problem of the Virgin Princess: At Clete’s suggestion, his father agreed to invite the Mallíns and their children to dinner at the big house on Avenida Coronel Díaz in Palermo.

  “After Christmas, of course, and before New Year’s. As an expression of my gratitude to them for their hospitality when you first arrived.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You will be able to see Dorotea before you go to Miami.”

  “It’s nothing like that, Dad,” Clete said, aware that he didn’t sound at all convincing. “They were just very kind to me.”

  “I understand completely,” his father said, and winked at him, man-to-man. “Get one young, and train her right.”

  Somehow—he wasn’t sure how—he would take the Virgin Princess aside for a few minutes and talk to her. He wasn’t sure yet what exactly he would say, but the gist of his words would be that there was a great difference in their ages, that she was really too young to know her own emotions, that while he held her in the highest possible regard, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

  He would at least have a chance to be with her one last time before he left. That was very important to him.

  He was considering that the real, as opposed to the wishful thinking, chances were that somewhere down the pike…If I even come back to Argentina at all, if I survive the war, if she doesn’t just dismiss me from her mind when I’m away from Argentina, I might be able tell her how I really feel about her—Christ, ask her to marry me!…when he heard the whine of the elevator motor, and then the sound of the door sliding open.

  He didn’t even turn to see who it was. The bad guys stood little chance of getting past Enrico, who had stationed himself and his Remington in an armchair in the foyer. And in any event, bad guys would not take the elevator. It was either Enrico checking on him, or one of the maids, here to clean the bath, make the bed, or do something else useful.

  It was much more pleasant to fantasize about the Virgin Princess in a white dress in a church somewhere smiling at him as he lifted her veil and the priest saying, “You may now kiss the bride.”

  “You bah-stud!” the Virgin Princess said loudly, indignantly, and quite clearly, in perfect Oxford English.

  He jerked his head toward the elevator. The Virgin Princess was walking angrily across the room toward him. She was rain-soaked. Her hair hung wetly down her cheeks. Her blouse and skirt were plastered to her body.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in! Been out in the rain, have you, Princess?”

  “You despicable bah-stud! I utterly loathe you!”

  Clete laughed.

  “I have been out of my mind with worry about you!”

  And then she was on him. He quickly put his hand up to thwart her obvious intention, which was to slap him. He missed her wrist, and she punched him in the face.

  Or, precisely, she connected with his nose.

  “Hey, Jesus Christ! Take it easy! That hurt!”

  She then slapped him, open-handed, on the head. The blow landed on his ear. It hurt even more than the punch in the nose. When he put his hand to his ear, she punched him in the face again.

  He grabbed her. It took much more effort than he expected to hold her hands, then pin her to the bed. During this defensive tactic, she managed to kick his legs, his ankles, and his lower abdomen. She missed the symbol of his gender by no more than an inch.

  But finally she was immobile under him.

  “You didn’t even call me to tell me you weren’t dead!” the Virgin Princess said, and tears started down her cheeks. “On Christmas Eve, goddamn you!”

  And then he was kissing her.

  A minute later, when he felt her go limp, he rolled off her onto his back, breathing very heavily. After a moment he looked at her. Her nipples were clearly visibl
e, standing erect against her rain-sodden blouse and thin brassiere.

  He raised his eyes to hers. She was also breathing heavily. Eyes locked with his, she put her hand to her blouse, tore the buttons open, then freed her breasts from the confinement of the brassiere.

  He put his mouth on the one closest to him.

  “Cletus!” she said. “Oh, Cletus!”

  “You were a virgin,” he said.

  “I wasn’t aware it was a sin to be a virgin.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Princess.”

  “‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Princess,’” she mocked him, then rolled over on top of him.

  “Princess!”

  “I wanted to kill you,” she said. “I have never been so furious with anyone in my life.”

  “Princess…”

  “I thought the first time would be dreadful,” she said. “It was actually rather nice.”

  “‘Rather nice’?”

  “Was it nice for you too?”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!”

  “Was it?”

  “What do you think?” he asked. His hand seemed to find her breast as if it had a mind of its own.

  “I don’t know what to think, having no experience in this sort of thing to speak of.”

  He kissed the top of her head and said, “It was very nice, Princess.”

  “I’m glad,” she said.

  And then he was kissing her forehead and her eyes and then her mouth again.

  The elevator whined.

  “Somebody pushed the elevator button.”

  “So?” she asked, pulling his face to hers again.

  “That means somebody is coming up here.”

  “Don’t let them! Not now, Cletus!”

  He freed himself, stepped out of the bed, and walked naked to the elevator.

  Christ, I didn’t even take my boots off!

  He looked back at the bed. She was propped up on one elbow.

  That has to be the most beautiful female in the world.

  “Pull the sheet over you,” he ordered.

  “Oh, my!” she said, and reached for the sheet.

  It was Enrico.

  “I didn’t think the lady posed a threat, mi Teniente,” Enrico said, his eyes carefully raised to the ceiling, “so I let her up.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “There is a Norteamericano downstairs, mi Teniente. A coronel.”

  “A colonel?”

  “Si, mi Teniente.”

  Who the hell can that be? A Norteamericano colonel?

  “I’ll be right down, Enrico.”

  He walked to the bed. She was prone under a sheet.

  “I have to go downstairs a minute.”

  “I heard. Damn!”

  “I’ll be right back. We have to talk.”

  She sat up. The sheet was dislodged.

  He kissed her forehead, then walked to the wardrobe, took out his bathrobe and put it on, and walked to the elevator.

  “Cletus, if you’re wearing that, what am I to wear? My clothing is soaked!” the no-longer-Virgin Princess demanded indignantly from the bed.

  “Take one of my shirts,” Clete said. “They’re in the wardrobe.”

  He stepped into the elevator beside Enrico. As it started to descend, she was walking naked to the wardrobe.

  When he opened the elevator door, he saw the Norteamericano coronel sitting in one of the armchairs in the foyer. He was in civilian clothing. He rose and smiled at Clete.

  “Merry Christmas, Tex,” Colonel A. F. Graham said, then asked, “Did you really threaten to punch Nestor into next week?”

  “What are you doing here?” Clete asked coldly.

  “Right now, I’m hoping that you will tell your friend to point that shotgun in another direction.”

  “I should tell him to blow your ass away with it,” Clete said. “You sent me down here hoping that I’d be killed.”

  Graham stopped smiling.

  “That was one of the scenarios, Clete,” he said. “But it wasn’t mine.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “If were I in your shoes, I suppose I wouldn’t believe me either.”

  “Why the hell should I?”

  “Because it happens to be the truth, Clete,” Graham said.

  Why do I believe him?

  “What are you doing down here?” Clete asked.

  “Despite the reports to the contrary I’ve been getting, when I heard the Germans tried to kill you, I decided you must be doing something right, so I decided to come see for myself what’s going on down here. I mentioned this at lunch to Newton-Haddle, and he somewhat—”

  “Newton-Haddle?” Clete interrupted.

  “Colonel Baxter F. Newton-Haddle. That’s right. You never met him, did you? He’s the Army Colonel who ran the Country Club.”

  “I don’t know him,” Clete said coldly.

  “Anyway, when I told Newton-Haddle I was coming down here, he told me, in the strictest confidence, that that would interfere with the scenario he and General Donovan were running. And he more or less politely told me to butt out. I went to Donovan to find out what that scenario was. And he had never heard of it, Clete. It was a solo operation cooked up by Newton-Haddle and Nestor.”

  “You expect me to swallow that whole?”

  Graham did not respond directly. “I have my own most likely scenario about how this happened,” he said.

  “I’ll bet you do.”

  “Nestor got close to Newton-Haddle when he went through the Country Club.”

  “Nestor went through the Country Club?” Clete interrupted incredulously. It was difficult to imagine the banker running around the woods of Virginia with his face painted black, learning fine points of hand-to-hand combat and throat cutting.

  Graham nodded. “And the two Brahmins of course found each other,” he said. “Nestor saw in Newton-Haddle a powerful spymaster with access to Donovan—an obvious avenue to enhancing his own career. Newton-Haddle saw in Nestor a chance to prove he could do something more worthy of his talents than teaching people how to stab each other with daggers. When Nestor discovered that your father had an American son, he thought he hit his payload. He would be the man responsible for getting Argentina into the war. So he went to Newton-Haddle with his scenario; and Newton-Haddle thought it was a splendid idea. It wasn’t difficult for him to find out where you were, and he managed to bring that information to my attention.”

  “We’re back to question one,” Clete said. “Why should I believe that?”

  “We’re back to answer one,” Graham said. “Because it’s the truth. If it makes you feel any better, Newton-Haddle is now at Fort Benning, Georgia, teaching knife fighting to parachutists; and Jasper Nestor has by now received a radiogram from the Bank of Boston ordering him home by the first ship. Donovan recruited him from the Bank of Boston. I don’t think he’ll send him back with a glowing letter of recommendation and appreciation. He—both of them—violated the First and Great Commandment of the OSS: Thou Shalt Not Deceive the Director.”

  Despite himself, Clete was aware that he was smiling.

  “That’s the truth, Clete,” Graham said. “And essentially all of it.”

  “‘Essentially all of it’? What’s the rest of it?”

  “Donovan sent me down here to salvage what can be salvaged. I think he expects me to see that the Reine de la Mer is taken out of action.”

  “She’s anchored twenty, twenty-five miles offshore, in the Bay of Samborombón,” Clete said. “She’s equipped with searchlights, heavy machine guns, almost certainly a couple of 20-mm Bofors automatic cannon, and probably has a five-inch cannon concealed in her superstructure. There’s no way anybody can get near her.”

  He was surprised when he sensed Graham accepting his assessment without question.

  “If you were God, how would you take her out?” Graham asked.

  “With a B-17 from Brazil. But I’ll settle for a TBF from Brazil.”

  “Both
ideas went on the table and were shot down. Politically impossible.”

  “Colonel, if you can find me a TBF in Brazil, I can refuel it in Uruguay. That’ll give me enough range to make the Bay of Samborombón. And then, after I put a torpedo in the Reine de la Mer, I’ll have enough range to fly over my father’s estancia. I’ll put the TBF on a heading that will take her out over the Atlantic and bail out.” He paused for a moment, thoughtful. Then he went on, “I could also take her back to Uruguay and refuel there again, if people want the TBF back.”

  “You can fly a TBF? That wasn’t in your records.”

  “And it’s official doctrine that a TBF needs a paved runway. And I’ve flown one a dozen times off Henderson Field, which is a lot rougher than the dirt road we used as a drop zone in Uruguay.”

  “That may be interesting information for the future. But using a TBF—or any warplane—has been decided against. The political price is considered too high.”

  “What are the Argentines going to do, bomb Miami?”

  “No, but if we bombed a neutral ship in Argentine waters, that would blow your father’s chances of becoming President of Argentina out of the water. The President says we can’t do that.”

  “The President?” Clete asked incredulously. “President Roosevelt?”

  Graham nodded. “Newton-Haddle went to him—they were at Harvard together—and complained about being relieved. The President called Donovan in for an explanation. The result was a compromise. They sent Newton-Haddle to Fort Benning instead of home, and Donovan was ordered to take out the replenishment ship by any means short of overt act of war. For this mission, an overt act of war has been defined as the use of military aircraft.”

  “What about the destroyer that’s…”

  “The Alfred Thomas? Same answer. No overt act of war within Argentine waters, and no board-and-search of neutral vessels on the high seas.”

  “Then what?” Clete asked in frustration. “We’re ordered to do something; and in the next breath we’re told we can’t carry out the orders. We’re told we can’t use anything that would actually get the job done.”

  “The President is the Commander in Chief,” Graham said. “He gives the orders, we obey them. And the only thing he’ll let us use now is a submarine, but how we’d use it God only knows…”