W.E.B. Griffin: Victory and Honor

“We don’t see many credentials like those,” Kellogg admitted.

“Well, so far we’ve managed to keep them off the cover of Time ,” Frade said.

“And your . . . boss . . . your boss is who?”

“Colonel Alejandro F. Graham, USMCR—”

“I know Colonel Graham,” Kellogg interrupted.

“—sometimes known as the Terrible Tiger of Texas A&M,” Frade finished. “Whose bite is far more deadly than his growl.”

Kellogg smiled somewhat uncomfortably.

“And you say Colonel Graham sent you out here to chat with two of our prisoners?”

“No. What I said was that he wants to chat with two of them, and sent me out here to fetch them.”

Frade went into a pocket on his tunic and came out with a sheet of paper.

“One of them is a Kapitän zur See Karl Boltitz and the other is Major Freiherr Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein. Now, that’s what I call a mouthful! I wonder how they get all that on his identification card?”

The master sergeant smiled.

“It’s not easy, Colonel,” he said. “And some of these Krauts have names that are even worse than that.”

“Colonel, this is more than a little unusual,” Kellogg said. “We didn’t even know you were coming. Do you have any kind of authority—written authority?”

“You mean, you want me to sign for them? Sure. Be happy to.”

“No, I meant a document authorizing you to take these officers with you.”

Frade sighed. “Colonel, let me explain how I came to be here. I got to Washington two days ago. I can’t tell you . . . Hell, why can’t I? The Germans have surrendered. I was in Portugal . . .

That’s true. I was in Lisbon not long ago, smuggling even more Nazis out of Europe.

“. . . as area commander . . .

Now I’m lying again. I’ve done so much of that it comes as natural to me as it did to Baron Munchausen.

“. . . I haven’t worn a uniform in years. Anyway, I got to Washington two days ago. Good Marine and fellow Aggie that I am, I immediately reported to the Terrible Tiger of A&M. Colonel Graham showed me a chair, handed me copies of Time and Life, and said to read them while he looked around for something for me to do. An hour ago, he handed me the names of these two Krauts and told me to go fetch them.”

“Colonel, how do I know that’s true?” Kellogg asked.

“Well, you could trust my honest face. Or you could ask yourself, ‘If Colonel Graham didn’t send this guy, how come he’s riding in the colonel’s chauffeur-driven Cadillac?’ Or you could call the Terrible Tiger and ask him. I would recommend Options One and/or Two.”

Kellogg considered that a moment, then said, “Excuse us a moment, will you, please, Colonel?”

“Certainly.”

The lieutenant colonel and the master sergeant went inside the headquarters building.

If they’re calling Graham, I’m screwed.

But why do I think they won’t call him?

Because, with a little bit of luck, one or both of them has been on the receiving end of one of Graham’s fits of temper.

The fits are rare but spectacular, and usually triggered by someone insisting on complete compliance with a petty bureaucratic regulation.

Never wake a sleeping tiger!

And I’m on a roll!

Not quite two minutes after the pair had walked into the headquarters building, the master sergeant came out.

“Sir, Colonel Kellogg suggests you go inside and have a cup of coffee with him while I go fetch the Krauts for you.”

“Fine. Thank you very much.”

“What we’re going to do is send an MP escort with you to the Institute of Health, in case the Krauts try to escape or anything.”

Oh, shit! Frade thought.

He nodded. “Good idea.”

The Office of Strategic Services had taken over the National Institutes of Health building in the District of Columbia “for the duration.”

In the headquarters building, Frade quickly found the light bird’s office. It had a sign hanging over the door: LTCOL D. G. KELLOGG. PROVOST MARSHAL.

Several minutes later, about the time Kellogg had poured coffee into a chipped but clean china mug for Frade, Kapitän zur See Karl Boltitz and Major Freiherr Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein were escorted into the office by two military policemen.

They marched up to Lieutenant Colonel Kellogg’s desk and came to attention and clicked their heels.

Boltitz—a tall, rather good-looking, blond young man—was dressed in the white uniform worn by officers of the German navy at sea. He paid little attention to the officer in the Marine Corps uniform. Von Wachtstein, also blond, was smaller and stockier. He was wearing U.S. Army khakis, to which had been affixed the insignia of a Luftwaffe major and his pilot’s wings. When he saw the Marine Corps officer, he gave what could have been a double take, but quickly cut it off to stand at attention.

Kellogg began: “Gentlemen, this is Colonel—”

“Cletus Frade,” Clete interrupted in a commanding tone, “lieutenant colonel, U.S. Marine Corps. We’re going to take a little ride. And if you’re even thinking of trying to get away from me, don’t. I’d like nothing better than the chance to shoot either or both of you Nazi bastards.”

To add visual support to his statement, he took a Model 1911-A1 Colt from the small of his back.

“I always carry this with a round in the chamber.”

“Colonel Frade,” Colonel Kellogg said quickly and nervously, “I can assure you that both of these officers have been very cooperative and . . .”

Frade snorted his disbelief.

“. . . I’m sure they will give you no problems.”

“Their choice,” Frade said. “They either behave or they’re dead men.”

Neither German officer said a word.

The Office of Strategic Services 2340 E Street, NW, Washington, D.C. 1535 10 May 1945

Preceded by an MP jeep and trailed by an MP weapons carrier, the Cadillac turned off E Street and stopped before a Colonial-style building that would have been quite at home on a college campus. Frade was in the front with the chauffeur; Boltitz and von Wachtstein rode in the back.

Frade surveyed the area and thought, What the hell do I do now? I never wanted to be here in the first place—and damn sure not with POWs I just broke out of the slam.

I’ve got to get rid of these MPs. . . .

Frade rolled down his window and commanded the driver of the lead jeep, “Drive around to the rear.”

In the back of the building were parking spaces. One of the two nearest the door was empty. It had a neatly lettered sign: RESERVED FOR THE DIRECTOR.

Frade pointed to it and ordered, “Pull in there, Tom.”

After Tom parked, Clete told Peter and Karl to wait in the car and then got out.

Two men in police-type uniforms came quickly—almost ran—from the building.

Clete intercepted them and announced, “Colonel Frade to see Colonel Graham.”

He did not offer his credentials. The security officers would know they weren’t bona fide.

“That’s General Donovan’s parking spot, Colonel,” the shorter of the security officers said. “You—”

“He told me to use it,” Frade cut him off, and started walking toward the building entrance.

Then he had a sudden idea.

He stopped, turned, and pointed to the jeep and weapons carrier.

“Have those escort vehicles moved to the front of the building,” he ordered the security men.

Frade heard them barking orders to the drivers of the MP vehicles as he entered the building. He came to two other security officers who were sitting behind a curved reception desk.