Griffin W.E.B. - Honor Bound 01 - Honor Bound

They shook hands.

"Frohliche Weihnachten, Clete," Peter said. "You were a pilot, right?"

Clete nodded.

"I could tell," Peter said. "Not only by the watch. Pilots are better-looking, more charming, and far more intelligent than other officers."

"More modest, too," Clete said.

"Absolutely. What did you fly?"

"Wildcats, Grumman Wildcats."

"You're a fighter pilot. So am I. Most recently Focke-Wulf 190s. I had a Jaeger squadron near Berlin."

"I was in the Pacific. Midway and Guadalcanal."

Their eyes met and locked for a moment.

"We heard about Guadalcanal," Peter said. "My father told me that the Japanese military attach? assured him that the Americans would be forced into the sea within weeks. My father said he did not think so."

"We were hanging on by our teeth for a while," Clete said. "But we're there for good now, I think."

"Are the Japanese pilots competent? And their aircraft?"

"The Zero is a first-class fighter," Clete said. "And some of the Japanese pilots, two in particular, were very good."

Peter chuckled in understanding.

"You were shot down twice?"

"Shot down twice, disabled once. I was able to bring it in dead-stick."

"Over Russia, especially in the Steppes, losing an engine is not much of a problem. You can sit down almost anywhere. Over Western Europe, it is a problem. The farms are smaller, and in France, in Normandy in particular, the edges of the fields are fenced with rock."

"I guess you know from experience?"

"Yes. Your Flying Fortress—B-17?"

Clete nodded.

"... is formidable."

"We have a saying—about pilots and watches—that you can always tell a B-17 pilot in the shower. He's the one with the big watch and the small prick."

He had to explain "prick" to Peter, the Mexican-Spanish vulgarism not being the same as the Spanish-Spanish; but eventually Peter laughed appreciatively.

I'm running off at the mouth,Clete thought, somewhat alarmed, which means I'm getting drunk. Why? I've only had three of these. What I should do, obviously, is politely tell mine enemy "good night," go to bed, and sort this all out in the morning. To hell with it. We have a gentleman's agreement that it's Christmas Eve, and I like this guy.

He picked up the cognac bottle, poured some in Peter's glass, and then refilled his own.

"I will not ask what an American Air Force officer is doing in Argentina," Peter said.

"Thank you," Clete said quickly. "An ex-officer. And I was a Marine, not in the Air Corps."

"A Marine? What is a Marine?"

"Soldiers of the sea," Clete said.

"Ah, yes. I have heard of the Marines. An elite force. They are like our SS."

"An elite force," Clete said coldly. "But not at goddamn all like your SS."

Their eyes locked again.

"There is propaganda on both sides in a war," Peter said. "Some of the SS—perhaps most—are fine soldiers."

"I think we better change the subject, Peter."

"And some are despicable scum," Peter went on.

"I know why you're here," Clete said. "You escorted Jorge Duarte's body, right?"

Peter nodded, then said, "My father arranged it. He wanted me out of the war, out of Germany."

Gott, I must be drunk!Peter thought. Why did I tell him that?

"I don't understand."

"I lost my two brothers, and my mother, in this war," Peter said. "My father wanted to preserve the family."

"I'm sorry," Clete said.

That was sincere,Peter thought. He meant that.

"Just before you came in here, I was wondering, with the assistance of Herr Martel"—he held up his brandy snifter—"if I have done the honorable thing."

"You said your father arranged it. Could you have stopped him?"

"I was wondering about that too. I didn't try."

"I was glad to get off of Guadalcanal," Clete said. "I figured I was running out of percentages."

"Excuse me?"

"You can only go up and come down in one piece so many times," Clete said. "Eventually, you don't come back. We call it the percentage."

"Yes," Peter agreed. "But you felt no ... obligation of honor... to remain?"

"I did not ask to be relieved, but I was glad when I was."

"I got drunk when I was relieved," Peter said. "I told myself I did it because I did not wish to be relieved. Now I am wondering if I really wasn't... glad."

"I thought maybe you were with Duarte when he was killed," Clete said.

"Never met him. I was told he was killed at Stalingrad flying a Storch, a little high-wing monoplane used for artillery spotting, carrying people around, that sort of thing."

"That he wasn't supposed to be flying in the first place. My father told me that if he had any idea he was putting him in the line of fire, he never would have let him go over there."

"What sort of a fellow was he?"

"I never met him," Clete said.

"Really? I thought he was your cousin."

"He was. But I never met him. Or his parents. Or, for that matter, my father, until a couple of days ago."

"I met them this afternoon. That was very difficult. I had the feeling they were asking, 'What are you doing alive when our son is dead?' "

"I had exactly the same feeling when I met them," Clete said.

"How is it you never met them?"

Clete told the story, including the cover story of his heart murmur and his job down here making sure the Argentines weren't diverting American oil products to the Germans. The lies made him uncomfortable, especially after "mine enemy" had been so openly sincere.

"Does that mean you can't fly anymore?"

"No. It just means I can't fly for the Marines."

"I miss flying," Peter said. "And I don't think I'll be doing much, if any, flying here."

"My father has a light airplane. If I can persuade him to let me use it, I'll take you for a ride."

"I would like that," Peter said seriously. "Thank you very much."

Se?ora Pellano came into the library a few minutes after one to find Se?or Cletus and the young German officer standing by the fireplace making strange movements with their hands, like little boys pretending their hands were aeroplanes.

They seemed embarrassed that they had been drinking. There was no reason for that.

She told them she had gone to midnight mass at the Basilica de Nuestra Se?ora del Pilar, which was why she was so late, and asked them if they would like anything to eat.

But they thanked her and said they were about to go to bed.

For about half an hour she sat on a little stool behind the door of the corridor that led from the foyer to the kitchen, until she heard them—sounding very happy if perhaps a little drunk—tell each other goodnight.

[FOUR]

Calle Olavarria

La Boca, Buenos Aires

1135 13 December 1942

As he prepared to enter the Church of San Juan Evangelista, Tony was telling himself for the tenth or twelfth time that he was making a fool of himself, a church seemed to be on every other corner, and the odds of her showing up at this one were one in nine zillion. That was when he saw her coming around the corner from the direction of Ristorante Napoli.

She wasn't as well-dressed as the last time he saw her. She was wearing a simple cotton dress and sandals, with a shawl around her shoulders and over her head. But she was even more beautiful than he remembered, like one of the statues of the Virgin Mary in St. Rose of Lima's, back in Cicero.

Seeing him standing by the church door seemed to surprise her, even to frighten her, as if he might do something bad to her, and she quickly averted her eyes.

Tony had gathered his courage. "Buenas noches, Se?orita," he said, smiling. It wasn't all that much different from Italian.

She looked at him and just perceptibly smiled, but did not speak.

He waited a good three minutes before following her inside the church, among other things debating the Christian morality of trying to pick up a girl there. He finally decided it was all right, he wasn't trying to fuck her or anything.