W.E.B. Griffin: Victory and Honor

“That being the case,” Dorotea said, and turned to the waiter. “Bring me another, too, please. No oysters. But a broiled white fish of some kind.”

“May I suggest the trout Pontchartrain?”

“Just so long as it’s broiled and white,” Dorotea said.

3470 Saint Charles Avenue New Orleans 1715 18 July 1945

“I’ll get it, Jean-Jacques,” Dorotea called out in the house. “I’m at the door.”

She pulled it open. A tall and muscular Navy commander stood there, a thick silver cord hanging from his shoulder.

“Mrs. Howell?”

“No, I’m Mrs. Frade. Mrs. Howell is my mother-in-law. Please come in, Commander.” She then raised her voice. “I think you had better come out here, darling. I think the other shoe has just dropped.”

“Mrs. Frade, I’m looking for Lieutenant Colonel Cletus Frade. Your brother, perhaps?”

“No, he’s my husband, something he’s been keeping a dark secret from the U.S. government for reasons he hasn’t elected to tell me.”

Clete appeared at the library door, carrying one of his sons in his arms and holding the hand of the other one.

“Colonel Frade?”

“Guilty.”

“My name is Portman, Colonel. I’m Rear Admiral Sourer’s aide-de-camp. The admiral’s compliments, Colonel. The admiral desires that you attend him immediately. In uniform, please, Colonel, and bring with you sufficient uniforms for a week.”

“And those are the Colonel’s children,” Dorotea said. “Something else I suspect he hasn’t told the Marine Corps.”

“Have I walked into a family argument?” Commander Portman asked.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Dorotea said.

“She’s been drinking Sazeracs,” Clete said. “They make some women romantic and some belligerent.”

“You have no complaints in the romantic department,” Dorotea said. “Even if you’re hiding me from the goddamn Marine Corps.”

“What happened, Commander, is that I told her when they checked my records at Pensacola, there was no record of our marriage—”

“Or of the boys,” Dorotea furnished.

“You really should look into it, Colonel,” Commander Portman said. “Your wife and children are entitled to dependent status. A monthly check comes with that.”

Frade looked askance at Portman, and thought, You sonofabitch, you’re enjoying this!

“And you know how we need the money,” Dorotea said. “Oysters by the dozen aren’t cheap. Can I offer you a Sazerac, Commander?”

“Well, perhaps while Colonel Frade is getting into his uniform. Thank you.”

“Where are we going, Commander?” Frade asked.

“Sorry, I can’t get into that, sir.”

“I thought if we’re headed for Pensacola, I could get my records fixed.”

“We’re not going to Pensacola. I can tell you that. Colonel, the admiral doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

There was a Navy Chevrolet staff car at the curb. From it, the last thing Clete saw was Dorotea standing on the porch, holding one of their sons in her arms and holding the hand of the other. The older boy was crying.

“Okay. She can’t hear. Where are we going?”

“To the airport. I can tell you that much.”

There was a Constellation at the airport, with U.S. NAVY on the fuselage and wings, and blue plates with the silver stars of a rear admiral in holders beside the pilot’s window and the passenger door.

Portman waved Frade up a set of stairs ahead of him.

A white-jacketed steward got out of a seat and motioned for Clete to enter the passenger department.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” he said.

The interior of the passenger compartment was unlike any Clete had ever seen. It looked more like a living room than anything else, with chairs and couches facing in both directions, and tables scattered between them. There was even a small bar, tended by another white-jacketed steward.

Clete remembered hearing that “admiral” meant “prince of the sea.”

“Colonel Frade?”

Clete found himself facing an erect, middle-aged man in a white shirt, collar open and tie pulled down, no jacket, and wearing suspenders.

Clete came to attention.

“Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Frade reporting to the admiral as ordered.”

“Welcome aboard, Colonel. I’m Admiral Sourer.”

“Sir, may I ask the admiral where we’re going?”

“No. But as soon as my junior aide gets back from Arnaud’s with our dinner, we’re going wheels-up for there. Sit down, Colonel, enjoy the ride.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The first stop was Boston. When they took off from Boston and headed just about due east, Clete first thought they were headed to Europe.

Probably Prestwick, Scotland. That’s within the Connie’s range.

Hell, the Connie could make it direct to Berlin.

Are we headed to Berlin?

Why the hell would a two-star admiral be going to Berlin?

Tempelhof Air Base Berlin, Germany 1445 19 July 1945

“Stay on board, Colonel,” Admiral Sourer said, “until we get through this arriving VIP nonsense. I’ll send Portman to fetch you.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

There was a squad of senior Army brass waiting at the foot of the stairs, and an Army band. One of the Army officers was an erect, tough-looking two-star, and Clete decided he was looking at the legendary General I. D. White.

He looked for Mattingly but didn’t see him.

Frade still had no idea what was going on. Admiral Sourer had quizzed him skillfully and at length on the flight to Boston, but had not made any accusations. Or threats of Leavenworth, either, if Clete didn’t fess up that he was smuggling Nazis from Germany to Argentina.

Admiral Sourer trooped the line of Hell on Wheels tankers, shook hands with the tough-looking two-star Clete was now pretty sure was I. D. White, and then climbed into a 1940 Packard limousine and, preceded and followed by M-8 armored cars, roared off the tarmac.

Commander Portman appeared at the passenger door and waved for Clete to debark.

A car—an Opel Kapitän, a Chevrolet-sized sedan now bearing U.S. Army markings—was waiting for them.

“Can I ask now if we’re going to Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask where we’re going?”

“To Potsdam. To a place called Sans Souci. It means ‘without care.’ It belonged to Crown Prince Wilhelm of the Hohenzollern dynasty.”

“Can I ask why we’re going to ‘care less’?”

“I think that means more ‘care free’ than ‘care less.’ And, no, you can’t ask why we’re going there.”

It was about a twenty-minute drive from Tempelhof to Potsdam, through areas that were about equally utter destruction and seemingly untouched in any way.

They crossed a very well-guarded bridge, then entered an equally well-guarded area. Finally, they were at sort of a palace. The palace seemed surrounded by heavily armed troops.

A full colonel very carefully examined both Portman and Frade, and their identity cards, then passed them to a captain, who led them into the building and then into a small room that looked as if it had at one time been some medium-level bureaucrat’s office.

Admiral Sourer was alone in the room, sitting on a hard-backed chair by a small desk.

“That’ll be all, Jack, thank you,” Sourer said.

“I’ll be outside, sir.”

He had no sooner closed that door than another door opened and a middle-aged man walked in.

“How was the flight, Sid?” the man asked.

“Eleven hours nonstop from Boston, Mr. President. You really should have taken the Connie when Hughes offered it to you.”