W.E.B. Griffin - Victory and Honor

Val de Cans Airfield Belém do Pará, Brazil 0218 17 May 1945

Brigadier General Robert G. Bendick, U.S. Army Air Forces, walked into the flight-planning room five minutes later, trailed by his aide-de-camp. He was a trim, intelligent-looking man in his midthirties; the aide looked like he had just finished high school.

“Good morning,” General Bendick said. “I’m afraid my Spanish is awful.”

“Not a problem, General,” Frade said. “I speak English. Thank you for coming so quickly. We’re a little pressed for time.”

Frade handed him the spurious credentials.

“Oh,” the general said.

“I never showed you those, sir. This is an out-of-school meeting.”

“To what end?”

“We’re headed for Berlin to relieve the Argentine diplomatic staff there. The aircraft has been chartered by the Argentine Foreign Ministry.”

“I saw the notification of that,” General Bendick said. “And?”

“Before we get into ‘and,’ why don’t you tell me about the other Constellation on the tarmac?”

“Before we get into ‘the other Constellation,’ why don’t you tell me about those Naval Aviator Wings you’re sporting?”

Their eyes locked. Frade had a sudden epiphany.

I am not going to get away with bullshitting this guy.

So, what do I do now?

“In another, happier life, I was a Marine fighter pilot,” Clete said.

Bendick’s eyes remained on his.

“Oh, really? And where exactly were you a Marine fighter pilot?”

He doesn’t believe me.

“They called it the Cactus Air Force, General.”

“In another, happier life, I was a B-17 pilot,” General Bendick said. “On one memorable day, I was saved from winding up in the drink off Guadalcanal by three Marine Grumman F4F Wildcats of VMF-221. Half a dozen very skilled Zero pilots had already taken out two of my engines and most of my vertical stabilizer when the Marines showed up. After dealing with the Zeros—the Marine F4Fs shot two down and scattered the others—the Marines then led me to Guadalcanal.”

He’s calling my bluff.

And he didn’t just make up that yarn.

“The name Dawkins mean anything to you?” General Bendick then asked.

Clete nodded. “If the general is referring to Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, I had the privilege of being under his command.”

“At Fighter One? VMF-221?”

“Yes, sir,” Clete said.

“You were then a what?”

“A first lieutenant, sir.”

“And now?”

“I’m a lieutenant colonel, sir.”

“So, what’s this, Colonel?” Bendick asked, holding up the spurious OSS credentials. “I never saw anything like this before. What’s an OSS area commander? And this makes you area commander of exactly what area?”

“Argentina and Uruguay, primarily.”

Bendick’s eyes showed he wasn’t satisfied with that answer.

Bendick said: “Let’s go back down Memory Lane, Colonel. What did Colonel Dawkins’s officers call him?”

“‘Sir,’” Clete blurted.

Clete thought he saw the hint of a smile on Bendick’s lips.

“And behind his back?”

“‘The Dawk,’ sir.”

“And so they did,” Bendick said, “something that would be known only to his officers.”

He handed Frade the spurious OSS credentials.

“We had been briefed, of course,” he said, “on using Henderson Field in an emergency. We had also been briefed on Fighter One, and told it was not suitable for emergency landings of B-17 aircraft. As I approached Guadalcanal, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I had neither the altitude nor the controls to make Henderson, so I put it down on Fighter One.

“I was a pretty good B-17 pilot, but not good enough to land on only one main gear, so shortly thereafter I found myself sitting at the side of the runway with, thank God, all of my crew. We were watching my aircraft burn when a feisty tall drink of water showed up. He was wearing shorts and shoes—no shirt, no cap—and in each hand he had four of those little bottles of medicinal bourbon.”

Bendick met Frade’s eyes. Frade nodded.

Bendick went on: “I shall never forget what he said to me on that memorable occasion: ‘When we saw you coming in, son, the odds were ten-to-one that nobody was going to walk away from your landing. You do know this isn’t Henderson Field?’”

“That sounds like The Dawk,” Clete said, smiling. “And fists full of medicinal bourbon bottles? Getting more than one little bottle from Colonel Dawkins meant he thought you had done good.”

“So I later learned,” General Bendick said. “So, welcome, welcome to Val de Cans. What do I call you?”

Colonel Dawkins, wherever you are, you have just saved my ass again.

How many times does that make?

“My name is Cletus Frade. My friends call me Clete. I wish you would.”

The general offered his hand. “Bob Bendick, Clete.”

Clete, pointing to them as he did so, said, “Peter von Wachtstein, Karl Boltitz, Enrico Rodríguez. My commo guy, Siggie Stein, is already in your radio shack; we have a Collins 7.2 aboard that needs fixing.”

“An airborne Collins 7.2?”

“Siggie Stein is an amazing commo guy,” Clete said.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“Tell me about the other Connie.”

“It’s classified Top Secret,” General Bendick replied.

“Manhattan Project?”

“Excuse me?”

“Excuse me, but are you saying ‘Excuse me’ because you don’t want to admit knowledge of the Manhattan Project?” Clete asked with a smile.

“I never heard of it,” General Bendick said. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you. But it’s the only thing I know that would justify classifying a passenger flight Top Secret.”

General Bendick looked at Frade for a long moment.

“How about a planeload of Secret Service agents bound for Frankfurt?” he asked finally.

“Is that what it is?”

Bendick nodded.

“What would be so secret about that?” Clete asked.

“President Truman going to Germany?”

“I don’t think that’s very likely,” Clete said. “Why?”

Bendick shrugged.

“The Secret Service is under the Treasury Department,” Clete then said. “And the secretary of the Treasury suspects that Nazis are being smuggled out of Germany to Argentina.”

“I know,” Bendick said.

“You know that Nazis are being smuggled out of Germany, or that Morgenthau thinks they are?”

“These Secret Service agents have been nosing around the base flashing their badges and asking my junior officers and enlisted men if they know anything about Nazis being smuggled through here. Or even of mysterious airplanes passing through here. They are even threatening them with what happens when you lie to a Secret Service agent.” He chuckled, and added: “I wonder what they’re going to think about your mysterious airplane.”

“If they ask, what will they be told?”

“Same that we were told. That it’s a charter flight to rescue Argentine diplomats from Germany. Unless . . .”

“No. That’s fine. And it has the advantage of being the truth. Did these Secret Service people talk to you, tell you what they’re looking for?”

“No. I must look like somebody who would smuggle Nazis.”

“If they had asked you, General—”

“I thought we were on a first-name basis.”

“Sorry . Bob, if they had asked you . . .”

“What would I have told them? The truth. I’ve heard the rumors, and I think there’s something to them, but I don’t have any personal knowledge, and my counterintelligence people haven’t come up with anything concrete.”