W.E.B. Griffin: Victory and Honor

“That pretty much sums it up.”

“Under these circumstances, Colonel, while you will be afforded the courtesies to which your rank entitles you, there are several conditions I feel necessary to impose.”

“Shoot,” Frade said. “Figuratively speaking, of course, Captain.”

“You will mess with the officers in the wardroom. Pushing that button”—he pointed—“will summon my steward, who will take care of your laundry, et cetera, and bring you, if you wish, coffee and doughnuts from the galley. You will not engage in conversation with the ship’s company—the sailors—at any time, and will converse with my officers only when I or my executive officer is present.”

“That’s that sort of roly-poly lieutenant who brought me down here when I came aboard?”

“His name is Lieutenant John Crosby, Colonel. You are not permitted to leave ‘officer’s country’—do you know what that means, Colonel?”

“I’d hazard a wild guess that’s where your officers hang out.”

Prentiss nodded. “And you are not permitted to be on the bridge. You may, should you desire, go to the flying bridges on either side of the bridge itself.”

Frade waited for him to go on.

“I think I’ve covered everything. Any questions, Colonel Frade?”

“I guess I missed supper, huh, Captain?”

Captain Prentiss turned and left the cabin without speaking.

Executive Officers’ Quarters USSBartram GreeneDD-201 South Atlantic Ocean off Brazil 0805 15 June 1945

Captain Prentiss knocked at the door, was given permission to enter, and did so.

Frade, who had been sitting at the fold-down desk, stood.

“I had hoped to see you at breakfast, Colonel.”

“It’s a little chilly in there for me, Captain.”

“I had planned to read this aloud to the wardroom,” Prentiss said, and handed Frade a sheet of paper. “That was transmitted in the clear, Colonel.” FOR SLATS FROM LITTLE DICK

POPPA SAYS YOUR SUPERCARGO REALLY GOOD GUY

TREAT HIM ACCORDINGLY

Frade handed the paper back without comment.

“My roommate at Annapolis,” Captain Prentiss explained, “Colonel J. C. Wallace, was called ‘Little Dick.’ He called me ‘Slats.’”

“I understand why people could call you Slats, Captain. But it would not behoove me as a field-grade Marine officer to ask why you called your roommate Little Dick.”

Prentiss grinned. Then he said: “Actually, one of the reasons was because his father, Vice Admiral Wallace, is called Big Dick.”

“Oh.”

“Colonel, you now have freedom of the ship, including the bridge. And I would be pleased if you would join me now for breakfast. I assure you, it will be much warmer in the wardroom than it has been.”

“Thank you.”

“All of my officers, and me, have been wondering exactly what it was that caused you to give Colonel Flowers the finger as we let loose all lines.”

Navy Pier Pensacola, Florida 0915 25 June 1945

Captain Prentiss and Lieutenant Colonel Frade were standing on the flying bridge of the USS Bartram Greene DD-201 as she was being tied up to the pier. Frade was in a Marine summer uniform he’d never worn before.

“I would hazard the guess, Clete, that that’s your welcoming party,” Prentiss said, nodding toward an officer standing beside a Navy gray Plymouth sedan on the pier.

“I’m crushed, Slats. I was expecting a brass band and a cheering crowd.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Prentiss said, tapping the Navy Cross on Frade’s chest, “where you got that.”

Frade glanced down at it, then replied: “In a hockshop on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. I bought a pair of those”—he tapped the binoculars hanging from Prentiss’s neck—“and the hockshop guy threw that in for free. I thought it looked nice, so I pinned it on.”

“Is that also where you got the Wings of Gold? In a New Orleans pawnshop?”

“No. A very long time ago, in another life, I got those here.”

“I’ll walk you to the gangway,” Prentiss said.

“Thanks for the ride, Slats.”

“In other circumstances, Clete, I would have been delighted to have you aboard.”

Prentiss and Frade reached the gangway just as it was lowered into place. The Navy officer—they were close enough for Frade to be able to see that he was a spectacles-wearing, mousy-looking lieutenant commander with the insignia of the Judge Advocate Corps where the star of a line officer would be, above the stripes on his sleeve—now stood waiting to come aboard.

Frade said: “I don’t see any reason I can’t get off, do you?”

Prentiss shook his head.

“Permission to leave the ship, sir?” Frade said.

“Granted.”

Frade saluted Prentiss, then the colors flying aft.

Prentiss offered his hand.

“Good luck, Clete.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

The JAG officer saluted as Frade stepped off the gangway.

Frade returned it.

“You are Lieutenant Colonel C. H. Frade, sir?”

“Guilty—for lack of a better word.”

The JAG officer ignored that. He said, “I’m Lieutenant Commander McGrory, Colonel. I have been appointed your counsel.”

He offered his hand. Frade was not surprised that McGrory’s grip was limp.

“We have a car, sir,” McGrory said.

A sailor opened the rear door of the Plymouth and Frade got in. As the car started down the pier, Frade saw that Prentiss was standing on the deck of the Greene watching them drive away.

When they were on Navy Boulevard, which would take them to Main Side, Naval Air Station, Pensacola, Frade said, “Exactly what are you going to counsel me about, Commander?”

“Certain allegations have been laid against you, Colonel . . .”

“What kind of allegations?”

“. . . and naval regulations provide that you are entitled to counsel while you are being interviewed with regard to these allegations.”

“In other words, you’re not going to tell me?”

“The specifics of the allegations will be made known to you in formal proceedings, Colonel.”

“And when are these formal proceedings going to take place?”

They were now at the gate to Main Side, Naval Air Station, Pensacola.

A perfectly turned-out Marine corporal took a look at the Plymouth, popped to attention, saluted, and bellowed, “Good morning, Colonel! Pass.”

Clete returned the salute, remembering the first time he’d come through this gate.

Life had been much simpler then.

All Second Lieutenant Frade, USMCR, had to do was learn how to fly the Marine Corps’ airplanes—and that wouldn’t be hard, as he had been flying since he was age twelve—then go to the Pacific and sweep the dirty Japs from the sky, whereupon all would be well with the world and he could go back to Big Foot Ranch, Midland, Texas, and get on with his life.

The Plymouth entered Main Side.

“What about the formal proceedings, Commander?” Frade asked.

“Inasmuch as no charges have been laid against you, Colonel, your status is that of a Marine officer returning from service abroad. Regulations prescribe certain things must take place for all returning officers. We will deal with that first.”

Two hours later, the medical staff of Naval Hospital, Pensacola, after a thorough examination of his body, determined that Lieutenant Colonel Frade not only was free of any infectious diseases—including sexual—that he might have encountered in his foreign service, but also that his general condition was such that he could engage in flight.

An hour after that, the Disbursing Office, NAS Pensacola, determined that inasmuch as he had not flown for more than three years the minimum four hours per month that was necessary to qualify for flight play, and inasmuch as on several occasions he had been paid flight pay in error, that flight pay would have to be taken from the amount of pay he was now due.