Aboard Ciudad de Rosario Above Rhein-Main Air Base Frankfurt am Main, Germany 1025 20 May 1945
“We’re indicating ten thousand, Hansel,” Frade announced. “Commence three-minute three-sixty turn.”
“Commencing three-minute circle,” von Wachtstein replied.
“And here comes Dooley,” Clete said as a P-38 pulled alongside. “Hello there, Little Brother!”
“Why don’t you knock that Little Brother shit off, wiseass?”
“Aircraft with your wingtip in my pilot’s ear,” Frade replied mock-seriously, “be advised you are scaring our passengers.”
“Jesus Christ!” Dooley said, disgusted, then excitedly added: “The C-54 just crossed the border!”
“We heard.”
Communications had turned out to be much better than anyone had dared hope they would be. The Rhein-Main control tower could talk to the truck-mounted control tower at Helmstedt, and once the C-54 had landed at Tempelhof and put its control tower in operation, Helmstedt had communication with Berlin.
Whatever Rhein-Main wanted to say to Tempelhof—or vice versa—had to be relayed via Helmstedt, but it was not necessary to relay messages between any tower via aircraft. And, of course, the airto-ground communications were also far better than expected.
Dooley asked Frade: “Then why did you just begin a turn? Aren’t you going to Berlin?”
“This is Rhein-Main. Clear this channel.”
“Yes, Mother,” Dooley said.
“South American Airways Double Zero Four, Rhein-Main. How do you read?”
“SAA Double Zero Four reads you five by five, Mother.”
“Rhein-Main Area Control clears SAA Double Zero Four direct Tempelhof U.S. Army Airfield Berlin on a heading of forty-eight-point-four degrees at ten thousand feet. Visual flight rules. Report to Helmstedt Area Control using Air-Ground Channel Two when crossing U.S.-Soviet zone border. Be advised that there are numerous USAF P-38 aircraft and possibly some Soviet aircraft operating along your route. Exercise appropriate caution. Acknowledge.”
Clete repeated, essentially verbatim, the Rhein-Main clearance.
“Double Zero Four, Rhein-Main. Affirmative.
“Mother, SAA Double Zero Four beginning climb to ten thousand and course change to forty-eight-point-four at this time.”
Since they were already at ten thousand feet, all von Wachtstein had to do was change course. He made the course correction as a fighter pilot, rather than the captain of an airliner, would—he shoved all four throttles forward as he cranked the yoke just about as far as it would go.
“SAA Double Zero Four, be advised the correct nomenclature of this airfield is Rhein-Main, not Mother.”
“Mother, SAA Double Zero Four, say again. Our pilot has been giving our passengers a thrill, and with all that screaming, I couldn’t hear you.”
Clete looked out the window at Archie Dooley.
Dooley signaled that he was going to fly ahead. Clete nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.
Dooley’s P-38, in a shallow climb, moved out.
Clete was still watching him pull away when he looked out his side window and saw another P-38 pull alongside. And then, through von Wachtstein’s—the pilot’s—side window, he saw a P-38 out there, too.
“Helmstedt Area Control, South American Airways Zero Zero Four.”
“Go ahead, Zero Zero Four.”
“Helmstedt, be advised that South American Airways Zero Zero Four, at ten thousand feet and indicating three-fifty airspeed on a course of forty-eight-point-four, is departing the American zone at this time. Acknowledge.”
“South American Zero Zero Four, Helmstedt acknowledges you making three five zero at ten thousand on a course of forty-eight-point-four and departing American zone. Be advised that both American and Soviet fighter aircraft are operating along your route. Exercise appropriate caution. When possible, contact Tempelhof Area Control on Air-Ground Channel Four.”
“Zero Zero Four understands Air-Ground Channel Four.”
Frade then experienced a feeling that for a moment he didn’t recognize. And then he did.
It was the same emotion he had experienced flying out of Fighter One on Guadalcanal—when, although he couldn’t see anything at that moment, he knew that the enemy could appear at any time.
With the great big difference being that then I was flying a Wildcat and could defend myself.
Now I’m flying an aerial bus with absolutely nothing to defend myself.
“All things considered,” von Wachtstein announced, “and apropos of nothing at all, I love the Connie. But right now I’d rather be flying a Focke-Wulf. Or even what Archie and his guys are flying.”
“Oh, come on, Hansel,” Clete said, then looking out ahead blurted, “Oh, shit!”
Three rapidly growing black dots were headed straight for them.
“What are they, Hansel?”
“YAK-3s,” von Wachtstein said.
Frade radioed: “Archie, where the hell are you?”
And then they saw something else.
Three P-38s appeared in front of the Constellation, moving so fast that Clete knew they were coming out of a full-power dive, with their airspeed indicator needles pointing to the red tape that meant If you go any faster than this, the wings will come off.
The three P-38s lined themselves up with the incoming YAK-3s.
What the hell are they going to do, play chicken? Frade thought, then said, “Jesus, I hope those Russians blink first!”
Suddenly, coming from the rear on both sides of the Connie, there was a burst of tracer fire—four red lines arching across the sky—and then another, and finally a third, single line of tracers, brighter than the first two.
“Ach du Lieber Gott!” von Wachtstein said.
“Not to worry, Hansel,” Frade said. “What they’re doing is testing their guns.”
“For Christ’s sake, I know tracers when I see them,” von Wachtstein said. “What was the last single burst? The bright one?
“That came from the Hispano-Suiza 20mm machine cannon,” Frade said. “The parallel tracer lines came from the four .50-caliber Brownings. You didn’t know that?”
Frade looked out his side window. The P-38 pilot who had tested his guns had pulled up next to them. He waved and grinned cheerfully.
Clete could see enough of the YAK-3s now to know that he had never seen one before. He looked at the leading edge of their wings waiting for the flashes of their weaponry.
They never came.
All of a sudden, the noses of the Russian airplanes lowered and they dived, quickly becoming smaller and smaller dots.
“I think the decision was made not to shoot us down,” von Wachtstein said softly.
“They would have had to go through Archie and his guys to do that. I wasn’t worried.”
I was scared silly, is what I was.
Terrified. About to wet my pants . . .
Frade reached for the radio control panel and switched to Air-Ground Channel Four.
“Tempelhof, this is South American Airways Zero Zero Four.”
“Double Zero Four, Tempelhof. I read you five by five. How me?”
Thank you, God!
“Five by five, Tempelhof. We are approximately sixty miles out at ten thousand, indicating three-fifty. Request approach and landing.”
“Double Zero Four, maintaining present course, begin to descend to five thousand feet at this time. Report when you have the field in sight.”
“Understand descend to five thousand and report when I can see you.”
“Affirmative. Be advised there have been reports of Soviet aircraft operating on your course.”
“Tempelhof, be advised my Little Brother and his pals chased the bad birds away. Beginning descent to five thousand at this time.”
“Tempelhof, Zero Zero Four. At six thousand and I have the field in sight.”
“South American Double Zero Four, maintain present altitude until over the field. Then commence descent in ninety-second three-sixty-degree turns. Report when at fifteen hundred.”
“Understand when over the field, commence ninety-second circular descent to fifteen hundred.”
“Double Zero Four. Affirmative.”
“I’m surprised anybody’s still alive,” Clete said as they slowly descended over the rubble of what was once the German capital. “Jesus, this is worse than Cologne or Frankfurt.”
“I don’t think Frankfurt or Cologne had as many thousand-bomber raids by the Americans in the daytime, followed by English thousand-plane raids at night,” von Wachtstein said matter-of-factly. “Hamburg is supposed to be even worse.”
“Tempelhof, South American Zero Zero Four at fifteen hundred.”
“Tempelhof clears South American Zero Zero Four as Number One to land on Runway Two Seven. Wind is at five from the north. Be advised there is an antiaircraft half-track and an M-4 Sherman tank parked near the threshold.”
“Understand Number One on Two Seven.”
“Flaps to twenty, gear down,” von Wachtstein ordered.
“Flaps at twenty, gear down and locked,” Clete replied after a moment, then said: “Try not to bend the bird, Hansel.”
“Jesus, that’s enormous,” Clete said as their landing roll brought them close to the terminal building.
“It’s supposed to be one of the twenty largest buildings in the world,” von Wachtstein said, and then added, “The last time I saw it, I came in here dead-stick, with oil all over the windscreen of my Focke-Wulf. When I finally touched down, my left gear collapsed.”
“I know the feeling, Hansel. You operated out of here?”
“No. So far as I know, we never used it for military operations. When they pulled me out of the Focke-Wulf, a guy asked me if I didn’t know I was not supposed to land here.”
Frade saw that there were only three aircraft under the arc of the huge building, all of them Piper Cub L-4s and all with the Second Armored Division insignia painted on the fuselage. The engine of one was running, and as von Wachtstein brought the Constellation to a stop and shut it down, that L-4 began to taxi toward the runway.
“There’s Mattingly,” von Wachtstein said, pointing.
Colonel Robert Mattingly was standing in front of the welcoming party—three other officers and half a dozen soldiers—all of them wearing the triangle patch of the Second Armored Division. Behind them was a small fleet of three-quarter-ton trucks and jeeps.
A strange-looking vehicle appeared from behind the trucks and jeeps and drove up to the rear of the Connie’s fuselage.
Von Wachtstein unstrapped himself and then—not without effort—put his head through the small window and looked out.
He pulled his head back in and reported, “It’s a hydraulic stairs. I wonder where they found that?”
He took another look, then announced, “Mattingly looks like he’s going to come up the stairs.”
Clete unstrapped himself, walked through the passenger compartment, and opened the door.
Mattingly loudly announced in Spanish: “Good morning, Captain. I am Colonel Oscar Hammerstein, the civil affairs officer of the United States Second Armored Division. May I address your passengers, please?”
“Yes, of course,” Frade said, equally loudly.
The name Oscar Hammerstein rang a bell, but Frade couldn’t put a face or anything else to it.
Mattingly came onto the Connie, moved past Clete, stood in the center of the aisle, and loudly said, “If I may have your attention, gentlemen?”
When he had it, he went on: “I am Colonel Oscar Hammerstein, the civil affairs officer of the United States Second Armored Division. I have the privilege of being your escort during your short visit to Berlin.
“On behalf of General White and the officers and the troopers of Hell on Wheels, permit me to welcome you to Berlin.
“You will now please disembark. You will be taken to the Argentine Embassy under the protection of the Second Armored Division. Your luggage and the supplies will shortly follow. The aircraft crew will remain here at Tempelhof. There is absolutely nothing to fear from the Russians, as we have every reason to believe, despite what you may have heard, that they will respect your diplomatic status.
“I’m sure your diplomatic personnel here will be able to answer any questions you might have before they leave for home, probably about oh-nine-hundred hours—that’s nine A.M.—tomorrow.
“I look forward to getting to know those of you who will be staying.
“And now, please begin to debark. Be careful! That ladder was a little unsteady as I came up here. Thank you for your kind attention. Once again, welcome to Berlin!”
Mattingly then quickly made his way up the aisle to the cockpit. Gonzalo Delgano quickly followed him, and on his heels came Vega and Peralta. Frade got there last, and closed the door to the passenger compartment behind them.
“There’s a hotel here,” Mattingly began, “and—”
There came a knock at the door.
Clete opened it.
Rodolfo Nulder stood there.
“If you don’t mind,” Nulder said, more than a little arrogantly, “I’ve got some questions for Colonel Hammerstein. Several, as a matter of fact.”
Mattingly said: “And you are, señor?”
“Rodolfo Nulder. I am, so to speak, the person in charge.”
“No, Señor Nulder. I am the person in charge, and I just told you to debark. Please do so.”
“I protest!”
“Duly noted. Now either stop delaying the movement or sit down and make yourself comfortable. You can spend the night on this aircraft.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this, Colonel Hammerstein!”
“It’s Hammersmith, Felix Hammersmith. I suggest you submit any complaints you might have in writing to SHAEF, after we—if we—get you safely out of Berlin. Which is it to be, Señor Nulder—are you going or staying?”
Nulder looked around the cabin. “You all were witnesses to this!” he said, primarily to Delgano, then turned and walked quickly down the aisle to the line of passengers at the door.
Delgano pulled the door closed and said, “Well, at least they’ll have something to talk about at the embassy tonight.”
“What I really think will happen at the embassy tonight is that your people who were here are going to give a detailed report of the rape of Berlin. Believe me, that will take everybody’s mind off Colonel Hammerstein, or Hammersmith, whatever name I used.”
“What happens to us now?” Delgado said.
Mattingly looked at Siggie Stein.
“I realized about thirty seconds ago, Siggie, that I should have asked this question yesterday. It is alleged by Mr. Dulles that you are one of the rare people who know how to make a Collins 7.2 work. True?”
“I know the 7.2 pretty well, Colonel.”
“Good. We brought one on the C-54. It is now in Admiral Canaris’s house in Zehlendorf. Just as soon as the diplomats have driven away and everybody can change into their officer equivalent civilian employee uniforms, we’ll go there and you can set it up.
“I suspect everybody from Ike down at SHAEF is wondering how things went this morning, and I don’t want to make that report in the clear—the Russians might be listening—over General White’s somewhat limited radio network.”
“Everybody goes?” Delgano asked.
“Good question, Colonel,” Mattingly said. “As I was saying a moment ago, there is a hotel here in the terminal building. Not very damaged. Adequate. It has a mess, which we have also put into operation. They don’t serve Argentine beef, of course, but the mess is adequate, too. What I would like to do is put the crew in it overnight, except for one of your officers, your choice, who I suggest should come with us to keep everybody in the loop.”
“Mario,” Delgano said. “You go. I’ll stay here with the others. I’d like to keep an eye on the airplane.”
“Sí, mi coronel,” Peralta said.
“Colonel Delgano,” Mattingly said, “as you climb down that wobbling ladder, you may notice two half-tracks, each mounting four .50-caliber Browning machine guns. They will help you keep an eye on the Ciudad de Rosario.”
357 Roonstrasse, Zehlendorf Berlin, Germany 1335 20 May 1945
The convoy—a M-8 armored car, three jeeps, two three-quarter-ton trucks, and a trailing M-8—had been wending its way slowly through rubble when it suddenly came into a residential area that appeared just about unscathed.
Here and there, some of the large villas and apartment houses showed signs of damage, but most of the buildings were intact.
“Welcome to Zehlendorf,” Mattingly announced.
He was driving the first jeep, with Frade sitting beside him and Boltitz and von Wachtstein in the backseat.
“Why is this . . .” Clete wondered aloud.
“. . . not bombed into rubble?” Mattingly picked up. “I suppose for the same reason the I.G. Farben building still stands in Frankfurt. Somebody decided we were going to need it and told the Eighth Air Force to leave it alone.”
On a side street, they came to a very nice two-story house—as opposed to the preponderance of large, even huge, villas in the area—and stopped. An American flag was hanging limply from a flagpole over the door, and a jeep with two GIs and a pedestal-mounted .50-caliber Browning in it was sitting at the curb.
On the right side of the house, a gaunt man in his sixties was pushing a lawn mower over the small patch of grass that separated Admiral Canaris’s house from its much more impressive neighbor.
“That’s surreal,” Frade said, pointing at him. “That’s absolutely surreal!”
As everybody looked, the old man pushed the lawn mower out of sight around the rear of the house.
Tiny Dunwiddie came out the front door of the house and, sounding more like a master sergeant than an officer-equivalent civilian employee, bellowed the suggestion to his men that getting their asses out of goddamned armored cars and helping unload the three-quarter-ton trucks might be a wise thing to do.
Enrico Rodríguez, who had ridden in the third jeep, smiled approvingly as more than a half dozen Second Armored Division troopers erupted from the M-8s and began to carry cartons and crates from the trucks into the house.
“Come on, Siggie,” Boltitz said. “I’ll show you where to set up the 7.2 before Mattingly starts screaming like that at you.”
Stein looked at him, then said, “That’s right. You worked for Canaris, didn’t you? You’ve been here before?”
“Yes, I’ve been here before. The last time just before I became the naval attaché in Buenos Aires.”
When Clete, trailed by Enrico, went in the house, he smelled coffee and followed his nose into the kitchen. There Clete found another elderly German man, this one setting out cups and saucers to go with the coffee.
They nodded at each other.
When Dunwiddie walked into the kitchen a minute or so later, Frade saw him take a quick, if thorough, look at Enrico, and then smile at him.
Jesus, how do these guys recognize each other on sight?
“Master Sergeant Dunwiddie, Sergeant Major Rodríguez, retired,” Clete said.
Dunwiddie offered his hand.
“You always carry a riot gun, Sergeant Major?”
“Only when I think I may have to shoot somebody,” Enrico replied.
“Welcome to Berlin.”
“I have been here before, when my colonel was at the Kriegsschule,” Enrico said.
“No shit? Small world, isn’t it, Sergeant Major?”
“My name is Enrico.”
“Tiny,” Dunwiddie said, offering his hand again. “Nice to meet you, Enrico.”
“I hate to interrupt the mutual admiration society,” Clete said, “but who are these guys? This one and the one cutting the grass?”
Dunwiddie looked a little uncomfortable.
“Colonel, they knocked on the door just about as soon as I got here. They said they used to work here and would do anything that needed to be done in exchange for food.”
“So you put them to work?”
“I never minded shooting the bastards, but watching them starve to death is something else.”
“Just so they don’t turn out to be some of those Nazis Morgenthau is looking for,” Clete joked.
That possibility was immediately put to rest when Boltitz, also following his nose, walked into the kitchen and saw the man setting out coffee cups.
“Gott in Himmel!” Boltitz said. “Max!”
The man setting out the coffee cups popped to rigid attention, and said, “Herr Kapitän.”
“Why do I think they know each other, Dunwiddie?” Frade asked. “Herr Kapitän, are you going to tell us what’s going on?”
“Max was the admiral’s chief bosun’s mate when he commanded the cruiser Schlesien,” Boltitz said.
“And the other one?” Frade asked.
“What other one?”
“The one pushing the lawn mower,” Clete said, and pointed out the window.
Boltitz looked, then opened the kitchen door. He barked, “Egon!”
The elderly, poorly dressed old man in the backyard walked quickly—almost ran—to the kitchen door, popped to attention, and said, “Herr Kapitän!” as if he was having trouble using his voice.
“Stand at ease, the both of you,” Boltitz ordered. “This is Egon. He was Admiral Canaris’s chief of the boat when the admiral commanded U-201 in the First World War.”
“And what are they doing here?” Frade asked.
Boltitz looked at them and asked, “Well?”
“Herr Kapitän,” Egon said, “we have been keeping an eye on the house for Frau Admiral Canaris since the SS took the admiral away.”
“And the Frau Admiral?” Boltitz asked softly.
“The last word we have is that she is with friends in Westertede,” Max answered. “The Nazis took their house in Westertede, too. You have heard what they did to the admiral?”
Boltitz nodded. “How come they didn’t take you, too?” he asked.
“Every good chief petty officer knows when to be stupid, Herr Kapitän,” Egon said. “We told the SS we had heard nothing, seen nothing, knew nothing. After we had told them that fifty times, they put us in the Volkssturm.”
“The what?” Frade asked as Dunwiddie opened his mouth to ask the same question.
“As the Russians approached Berlin, every German male from sixteen years old who was not already in uniform was pressed into the Volkssturm,” Max said.
“There were boys as young as twelve,” Egon said. “And men even older than Max and me.”
“And?” Boltitz asked. “When the Soviets came?”
“We deserted,” Egon said. “We took three of the younger boys with us, and hid in the ruins of my apartment building until we heard the Americans had come. Then we came here to look after the house for the Frau Admiral.”
“And where are you living now?” Boltitz asked.
“In a ruin off Onkel-Tom Strasse.”
“What happened to the boys?” Frade asked.
“One of them managed to get home. His mother was still alive. The two other boys are waiting for us to return. Herr Dunwiddie said he would give us some rations. . . .”
“How did you learn what happened to the admiral?” Boltitz asked.
“Herr Kapitän,” Max said. “Egon and I served the admiral for most of our lives. We know how to find things out.”
“We—the U.S. Army—have buried Admiral Canaris with the honors appropriate to a senior officer,” Mattingly announced from behind Frade.
Frade was a little startled; he hadn’t heard him walk up.
“That is good to hear, Herr Oberst,” Max said. “The admiral did not deserve what the SS did to him.”
“I missed the first part of this,” Mattingly said, and looked at the elderly Germans. “How is it that you’re in the kitchen making coffee and you’re cutting the grass in the garden?”
Dunwiddie answered: “They came to me, Colonel, and said they used to work here.” He pointed to each and added, “Max and Egon offered to make themselves useful if we fed them.”
Karl put in: “They did more than simply work for Admiral Canaris. They served under him.”
As he finished giving the details of that, von Wachtstein and Peralta walked into the kitchen.
“I knew I smelled coffee,” Peralta said.
“This is Captain Peralta,” Boltitz said. “He is an Argentine pilot.”
Egon and Max acknowledged Peralta with a nod.
“And this is the Graf von Wachtstein,” Boltitz said.
Max and Egon snapped to attention.
“Herr Graf,” they said in unison.
“You have heard what happened to Generalleutnant von Wachtstein, presumably,” Mattingly said.
They nodded.
“I heard you say before that both of you know ‘how to find things out,’” Mattingly said.
Neither Max nor Egon said anything, but both nodded and looked at him curiously.
“Would you be willing to find some things out for us?” Mattingly went on.
Both looked uncomfortable.
“Would you be willing to help us,” Mattingly pursued, “by suggesting to whom Boltitz should talk to find out about the submarines that are supposed to be taking high-ranking Nazis to South America?”
“You remember General Gehlen, of course, Max? Egon?” Boltitz said.
“The last time we saw your father, Herr Graf,” Egon said softly, “was in this house. There was a small dinner. Your father, Fregattenkapitän von und zu Wachting, and Oberst Gehlen of Abwehr Ost. The gentlemen were joined after dinner by SS-Brigadeführer Ritter von Deitzberg, Himmler’s adjutant. With the exception of von Deitzberg, all distinguished German officers. Fregattenkapitän von und zu Wachting was tortured and then hung by the SS and then left to rot beside the admiral. I don’t know where Oberst Gehlen met his fate. I can only hope it was quicker. . . .”
“General Gehlen,” von Wachtstein said, “I am happy to tell you, is alive and well. We had dinner with him last night. SS-Brigadeführer von Deitzberg was sent to hell by one of General Gehlen’s officers, Oberstleutnant Niedermeyer . . .”
“The admiral liked Oberstleutnant Niedermeyer,” Max said.
“. . . who blew von Deitzberg’s brains all over the men’s room of the Hotel Edelweiss in Barlioche, Argentina. The police found his body in the urinal.”
Boltitz began: “Graf von Wachtstein and I, and General Gehlen, are now working with Colonel Mattingly—”
“Herr Kapitän,” Egon interrupted him. “If you and I could somehow get to Bremen and talk to some of our old U-boot comrades, I think we could learn from them anything they know.”
“Bingo!” Clete said.
“Thank you, Egon,” Boltitz said.
Clete added, “Now, can I have some of that coffee before it gets cold?”
“I’d forgotten why I came down here,” Mattingly said, “but now remember. Stein needs electrical power to get the Collins up and running. What’s the status of the generator, Tiny?”
“Generators, plural, two of them, are on the way. I guess my guys waited to pick up what was going to fall off the Constellation.”
“What’s going to fall off the Constellation?” Frade and Peralta asked together.
“We’re not talking about that,” Mattingly said.
Tiny Dunwiddie said, “What I’m wondering is what we do with the boys.”
“What?” Mattingly asked.
Dunwiddie related the story, then said, “When I had a chance to tell you about Max and Egon, Colonel, I was going to ask if it would be all right if the boys stayed with them on the third floor until we figure out what to do with them.”
“Where are your people going to stay?” Mattingly asked.
“I requisitioned the house next door,” Tiny said. “That’s why we need two generators, so they can have juice, too.”
“Okay,” Mattingly said after a moment. “That’ll work.” He turned to Max. “Do you think you could find us a housekeeper? Maybe two? Cook, wash, clean, make beds, et cetera? Both ugly and over fifty?”
Max nodded. “There are tens of thousands of women in Berlin—some young and quite beautiful—who will jump at the chance to work—or do anything else—for food and to be safe from the Russians.”
“Get us a couple of the old and ugly ones,” Mattingly ordered. “See if you can do that when you go pick up the kids. Tiny, send Max in one of the M-8s.” He paused. “I don’t know how we’ll handle two kids around here. How old did you say they were?”
“One is fifteen, the other fourteen,” Max said. “Just before we deserted, the fourteen-year-old, Heinrich, took out a Russian T-34 with a Panzerfaust—”
“With a what?” Frade asked.
“Handheld rocket,” Tiny furnished.
“This fourteen-year-old kid killed a Russian tank?” Frade asked incredulously.
Egon nodded. “And then Heinrich cried, Herr Oberst, and wet his pants, and that’s when Max and I decided it was time to desert and try to keep Heinrich and Gerhard alive.”
“Jesus Christ!” Frade said, and then asked, “I don’t suppose there’s anything to drink around here, is there?”
“Patience is a virtue, Colonel Frade,” Mattingly said. “Try to remember that all things come to he who waits.”
The first M-8 armored car that Frade had ever seen was when they had landed at Tempelhof. Curious, and wanting a better look at one, he and von Wachtstein followed Tiny Dunwiddie out to the street. Tiny was taking Max out to get him a ride to fetch Heinrich, the fourteen-year-old who had killed a T-34, his fifteen-year-old pal Gerhard, and two old and ugly women.
The M-8 had six wheels, like the standard six-by-six Army truck, and it looked like someone had set the turret of a tank down on top of the truck.
The Second Armored Division troopers were happy to show off their vehicle to the three men in the officer equivalent civilian employee uniforms.
“How about taking me along when you go get these people?” von Wachtstein said.
“Hell, we’ll both go,” Frade said.
“There won’t be room,” von Wachtstein said. “Why don’t you wait until we come back?”
Frade was about to argue but then saw a three-quarter-ton truck coming down Roonstrasse. It had two of Tiny’s men in it. Lieutenant Colonel Archer W. Dooley Jr., USAAF, sat beside the driver.
Frade looked at von Wachtstein and said, “Remember, Hansel, Mattingly said ‘old and ugly.’ You’re now a married man.”
Von Wachtstein gave him the finger. The M-8 started to move.
When the three-quarter pulled to the curb, Frade saw what had fallen off the Constellation. In addition to the generators, the truck carried one of the insulated containers holding fifty kilograms of chilled Argentine steak, another insulated container labeled VEGETABLES AND ORANGES, and two wooden cases on which was painted BODEGA DON GUILLERMO MENDOZA CABERNET SAUVIGNON 1944.
“You could have waited for me, hotshot,” Dooley said as he climbed out of the truck. “Until I saw Tiny’s guys, I was standing on the tarmac with my thumb up my ass.”
“Be careful with the wine, Sergeant,” Frade ordered. “It’s nectar of the gods.”
Tiny’s men quickly got one of the generators up and running. Lightbulbs glowed and then came to full brightness. The refrigerator came to life with a screech and several loud thumps.
“Now that we have juice,” Mattingly said as he walked out of the kitchen, “Stein will have the Collins up and running, and I will be able to tell David Bruce that we done good.” He paused and added, “Don’t drink all the wine before I get back.”
Tiny pulled the cork from a bottle of the Cabernet with what looked like the corkscrew accessory on a Boy Scout knife. Clete put his hand out and after a moment Tiny took his meaning. He laid a knife with the Boy Scout insignia on it.
“‘Be Prepared’!” Tiny said. “You never heard that, Colonel?”
“You’re speaking to Eagle Scout Clete Frade, Troop 36, Midland, Texas,” he said with a knowing grin, then flashed the Scout sign with his right hand.
Frade’s grin faded quickly when von Wachtstein walked into the kitchen followed by Max, who had his hands on the shoulders of two gaunt, pale-faced boys wearing tattered, ill-fitting remnants of German army uniforms.
Jesus H. Christ!
The little one has to be Heinrich.
The one who killed a T-34 with a Panzerfaust, then pissed his pants.
“Hello,” Frade said. “You’re Heinrich, right?”
The boy came to attention.
“The war is over, Heinrich,” Frade said. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”
Max walked to a corner of the kitchen and picked up two waxpaper-wrapped cartons labeled CRATION.
“With your permission, Herr Dunwiddie?”
“You don’t have to ask, for Christ’s sake,” Tiny snapped.
He pulled chairs out from the kitchen table and motioned for the boys to sit in them. When they had done so, he used his Boy Scout knife to open the Crations.
He took a Bar, Chocolate, Single, Hershey’s, from each and tore the corners off and handed them to the boys.
“It’s all right,” Max said in German. “It’s chocolate.”
Both boys took a small bite, then smiled shyly.
“Is that the best we can do for them, Crations?” Frade asked. He realized his voice sounded strange.
“In just a minute, Colonel, I’m going to open that”—he pointed to one of the insulated containers that had fallen off the Constellation—“and see if I can find them an orange.”
“They’re also going to need a bath and some clothes,” Frade said. “What can we do about that?”
“Now that we have electricity, Herr Oberst,” Egon said, “there will be hot water in half an hour.”
“And can we buy them something to wear? Have we got any German money?”
“German money is useless, Colonel,” Tiny said. “So, for that matter, is American. But I think Max can get them some clothing by trading a couple of Crations and packs of Lucky Strikes. I also have Nescafé.”
He pulled open a kitchen cabinet door. The cabinet was stuffed with cartons of cigarettes and Nescafé.
“Like I said, Colonel—‘Be Prepared.’”
He walked back to the table, where he showed the boys how to open small, olive-drab tin cans labeled STEW, BEEF, W/POTATOES.
Clete saw that tears were running down Heinrich’s and Gerhard’s cheeks.
Frade took a swallow of the Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon 1944. It didn’t taste as good as he expected it to.
Then he looked at Lieutenant Colonel Archer W. Dooley Jr. and saw that tears were running down his cheeks, too. Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez, Retired, wasn’t crying, but he looked as if he was about to.
“You going to drink all that wine by yourself, hotshot, or do I get some?” Dooley asked.
Mattingly came into the kitchen.
“Pay attention,” he said. “There is a message from the Supreme Commander. Quote. Pass to all OSS and Air Forces personnel involved. Well done. Eisenhower. General of the Army. Close quote.”
“You’re welcome, Ike,” Frade said. “We’re always happy to do what we can.”
“The significant part of the Supreme Commander’s message, Colonel Frade, is that Ike is grateful to the OSS. That just may buy us some time.”
“Point taken,” Frade said.
“And then, when David Bruce had finished delivering Ike’s thank-you, he dropped the other shoe. ‘Get the Argentine diplomats and their airplane out of Berlin as soon as possible.’ He was more than a little disappointed that we couldn’t leave this afternoon. But first thing in the morning . . .”
357 Roonstrasse, Zehlendorf Berlin, Germany 0715 21 May 1945
Breakfast was prepared by the two women Max had brought to the house late the previous afternoon, when he returned from his bartering expedition to get the boys clothing.
The women were neither old nor ugly.
Clete saw that their eyes, however, were empty. They were sexless.
Neuter, Clete thought. Zombies in skirts.
It was hard to guess even how old they were. Somewhere, Clete gauged, between his own age and fifty.
Both wore wedding rings, but Clete suspected their husbands were no longer part of their lives.
Frade, when able to do so quietly, gave in to the temptation to ask Egon if he thought they had been raped.
“They told me, with great hesitation,” Egon reported, “that the Asiatics had Giesela for most of a week. And Inge for four days. That meant Giesela had been repeatedly raped for most of a week, but Inge for ‘only’ four days.”
“Jesus H. Christ!”
“It happened all over, Herr Oberst,” Egon said. “Women. Young girls. Grandmothers. Boys. It would have happened to Gerhard and Heinrich, too. Except that when the Asiatics finished with boys from the Volkssturm, they killed them. That’s why Max and I took Heinrich and Gerhard with us.”
Von Wachtstein came into the kitchen. His officer equivalent civilian employee uniform had been replaced by clothing that looked only a little cleaner and less tattered than what the boys had been wearing.
Frade knew immediately what that meant, but had a hard time accepting the reality of it.
Shit!
“Have a nice flight, Clete,” von Wachtstein said. “I’ll see you when you come back with the money.”
“Didn’t you hear what Gehlen said, you goddamn fool? The Russians are going to crucify you upside down, because you’ll be easier to skin that way.”
“That presumes the Russians catch me. I’m going to try very hard to see that doesn’t happen.”
“Well, you’re not going, so get rid of those clothes and put on your uniform. We’re about to leave for Tempelhof.”
As if to make the point that it was time to go to the airport, Peralta came into the kitchen, followed by Stein, Mattingly, and Boltitz.
Mattingly’s, Boltitz’s, and Stein’s faces showed that they also knew the meaning of the clothing and didn’t like it either.
Peralta’s face showed complete disbelief.
“Hansel,” Frade went on, “you’re going back with us if I have to have Tiny and his guys tie you up and throw you on the airplane.”
“You could of course do that, Clete. But all that would do is delay my departure for Pomerania and increase the chances I’ll be caught by the Russians.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind!” Clete said.
“It is my duty to our people.”
“What about your duty to your wife and child? Don’t try to feed me that noblesse oblige bullshit. I don’t buy it, Herr Graf! It’s a crock of shit!”
“I’m sorry you don’t understand, Cletus. It is a matter of honor.”
“Where’s the honor in getting skinned like a fucking Christmas turkey?”
That’s stuffed like a turkey, jackass!
“You know how much of the von Wachtstein assets are in Argentina, Cletus. How could I live with myself in Argentina if I didn’t use them to help what are now my people?”
“How are you going to help them, Herr Graf, your royal fucking majesty, if you’re nailed skinless and upside down to the fucking castle door?”
“What I am going to do, Cletus, is let my people know—”
“You sound like Moses, for Christ’s sake. You should hear yourself ! ‘Let my people go!’ Jesus!”
“Moses said, ‘Let my people go.’ What I said was that I intend to let my people know that the Graf von Wachtstein has not deserted them and will do everything in his power . . .”
“There’s that regal fucking third person! Mattingly, do you believe this?”
“. . . everything in his power to get them out from under the Communists and to a new life in Argentina.”
“Send them a fucking telegram!”
“They have to see me. Once they have seen me, and I have spoken with them, I will come here.”
“Just for the sake of argument, let’s say that doesn’t work. What am I supposed to tell your wife?”
“If something should happen to me, my dear friend, I would want you to tell the Countess von Wachtstein that I loved her as I have never loved any other woman, and that I regret that she must now assume the responsibilities that come with the title. And remind her that if I am no longer alive, our son is the Graf von Wachtstein.”
Clete looked at him but, feeling his throat constrict and knowing his voice simply wasn’t going to work, said nothing more.
“I have treasured your friendship, Cletus,” von Wachtstein said. “Will you not shake my hand and wish me luck?”
Peter put out his hand.
After a long moment, Clete took it.
Their eyes met. The handshake turned into an embrace.
When Colonel Robert Mattingly and Lieutenant Colonel Archer W. Dooley Jr. heard Frade, his voice breaking, say, “You better come back, you crazy Kraut sonofabitch, or I’ll come to that goddamn castle of yours and kick your ass all the way back to Argentina,” they averted their faces and dabbed at their eyes with their handkerchiefs.
Tempelhof Air Base Berlin, Germany 1005 21 May 1945
“Tempelhof Departure Control. South American Airways Double Zero Four on the threshold of Twenty-seven.”
“Tempelhof Departure Control clears South American Airways Zero Zero Four as Number One for takeoff on Runway Two Seven. South American Double Zero Four is cleared Direct Rhein-Main Air Base. On takeoff, when on course two-three-two-point-two degrees, climb to twenty thousand feet. When possible, change to Helmstedt Area Control on Ground-Air Channel Two. Be aware, P-38 aircraft are, and Soviet aircraft may be, active on your route. Acknowledge.”
Clete repeated the clearance.
“Takeoff power, please,” Chief Pilot Delgano ordered.
“Tempelhof,” Clete reported a moment later. “South American Double Zero Four Rolling.”
“Helmstedt Area Control, South American Double Zero Four,” Frade radioed.
“Double Zero Four, Helmstedt reads you five by five. How me?”
“Helmstedt, also five by five. South American Double Zero Four at twenty thousand indicating three-fifty on a course of two-three-two-point-two. Leaving Soviet zone and entering American zone at this time.”
“Helmstedt understands Zero Zero Four has entered American zone.”
“Affirmative. Helmstedt, South American. En route change of destination. Please close out my Rhein-Main flight plan, and note that we are changing course to two-three-seven-point-three at this time. Direct ultimate destination Lisbon, Portugal.”
“Double Zero Four, I’m not sure you can do that.”
“Don’t be silly,” Frade said. “Of course we can.”
Dooley’s voice then came across Frade’s headset: “Hey, hotshot. Try not to run into the Pyrenees.”
“Little Brother,” Frade replied, “I wondered where you were.”
“I’ve been covering your ass from above and behind.”
Sixty seconds later, Colonel Dooley demonstrated this by suddenly appearing—coming out of a high-speed dive—in front of the Ciudad de Rosario. Then he twice rolled the Lockheed Lightning and made a steep descending turn out of their path.
“So long, hotshot!” Dooley said. “Write if you find work.”
When Dooley was out of sight, Frade said, “Gonzo, when Dooley gets out of the Air Forces after the war, I was thinking he’d make a fine SAA pilot.”
“Is that an order or an observation?”
“Right now, just an observation.”
“In that case, I quite agree,” Delgano said, then his tone softened as he added: “Clete, Mario told me about Peter von Wachtstein.”
“And?”
“I knew when we had dinner with General Gehlen that Peter was going to Pomerania, and that there was nothing you or anyone else could do to stop him.”
“You’re pretty perceptive. Maybe you should consider giving up driving airplanes and becoming, oh, I don’t know, maybe an intelligence officer.”