Nervo said he would send an official of appropriate rank to the German embassy immediately, and asked if Mashewitz had notified the office of the president of the Republic, as he was sure they would want to hear about this.
Mashewitz said that he would telephone the office of the president of the Republic immediately, but that he had reason to believe the president himself was attending a luncheon function at Campo de Mayo.
“Well, then, I suppose I had better be getting out there myself, hadn’t I?” Nervo replied, then added, “And I think it would be a good idea if you called BIS and let them know about this. I presume you have the number?”
Mashewitz, deciding that it would only complicate matters if he said that his first call had been to BIS, simply replied that he had the number.
When he hung up, he did not call the office of the president, but instead went to lunch. The foreign minister, who would of course have to be told as soon as possible, was taking his lunch at the Jockey Club, where of course talk of business was verboten, and the foreign minister did not take kindly—to put it mildly—to being disturbed during his meal. The news would wait until the foreign minister returned from lunch. In the meantime, he would have a lamb shank and a glass or two of merlot at a restaurant just around the corner from the ministry.
[FIVE]
El Palomar Airfield Campo de Mayo Military Base Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1245 14 July 1943
Don Cletus Frade saw El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón waiting for him as he taxied the Piper Cub up to what on an American base would be called Base Operations.
Perón, in uniform, was sitting somewhat regally in the back of his official car, a glistening olive-drab Mercedes touring sedan, which, despite the chill of the wintry July day had the top down. Major Gonzalo Delgano, Army Air Service, “Retired,” was in civilian clothing and seated in the front beside the soldier driver. Delgano looked uncomfortable.
Perón appeared displeased when he saw Sergeant Major Rodríguez, Retired, get out of the backseat, then take out his Remington Model 11 self-loading shotgun. Rodríguez rested the shotgun against the landing gear and began to tie down the Cub and put its wheel chocks in place.
Oh, hell, Frade thought. I don’t know what’s going on. But the last thing I want to do is make a full day of this, with a long lunch at the club and where everybody will be making their manners to Perón—which is obviously what he has in mind.
What I have to do is get the hell out of here—fly to Tandil, wherever the hell that is, make sure that Dorotea made it all right, then make sure the Germans are firmly locked up where they won’t be seen, then get back to the estancia while there’s still enough light to fly.
Which means: I will need a chart to find Tandil.
And gas. I can’t make it with the fuel aboard—the J-3 Cub holds only twelve gallons of fuel, giving it a range of about 190 miles. And it’s farther than that from El Palomar to Tandil.
He turned his back to the Mercedes.
“Enrico, we have to go to Tandil. Get a twenty-liter can of gas and a map, and put them in the plane. And make sure the tank on the Cub is full.”
Enrico nodded.
“Aren’t you glad you brought me along, Don Cletus?”
“Yes, I am,” Frade said, and squeezed his shoulder. Then he walked toward the Mercedes.
Perón descended somewhat regally from the Mercedes.
Don Cletus wondered: What’s the protocol? Does one kiss a colonel in a class “A” uniform on a military base?
When in doubt, kiss.
“I was becoming worried that you would be late, Cletus,” Perón said after they had kissed.
“Punctuality is my only virtue, Tío Juan,” Clete said as he offered his hand to Delgano. “You said one o’clock, and I’m ten minutes early.”
“You had best get in back with us, Delgano,” Perón ordered, “and let the sergeant major sit with the driver.”
“Enrico’s going to fuel the airplane,” Clete said.
Perón looked relieved. But even though Enrico was not going, Delgano got in the backseat. The three of them were all large men, and it was a tight fit.
“Well, where do I take the exam?” Clete asked. “Last night I felt like a schoolboy studying up for it.”
Perón smiled at him but did not reply.
Five minutes later, the Mercedes pulled up in front of the Officers’ Casino. Cars of all sizes lined the driveway.
“Tío Juan, it looks like half the Ejército Argentino is having lunch. Why don’t I take the examination now? And we can come back when there aren’t so many people?”
Perón didn’t reply. He got out of the car.
Shit!
They walked through the ornate doors and into the marble-floored lobby.
Major Cletus Frade, USMCR, looked up at an enormous crystal chandelier and thought: Boy, this is really one hell of an O club. I’d forgotten how fancy it is.
Probably because the last time I was here, there was a good chance I’d be stood against a wall.
The O club at Fighter One was a couple of picnic tables under a canvas flap.
On great occasions, there was a can or two of beer. Warm beer.
A major wearing a uniform draped with gold aiguillettes marched up to them.
“This way, mi coronel,” he said.
He walked to a double door and pulled the right side open.
Perón motioned for Clete to precede him.
Just as soon as he was through the door, the major with the aiguillettes barked, “Mr. President, gentlemen, our guests!”
There was the sound of shuffling feet as the room full of officers came to their feet, and then the sound of applause.
I don’t know what’s going on with Tío Juan Domingo, but I am going to find a chair at the rear of the room.
Perón firmly grasped Clete’s arm and marched him along the side of the dining room, then behind the head table.
General Arturo Rawson, president of the Republic of Argentina, was standing there in uniform. He wore a broad smile and had his arms ready to embrace somebody.
“My great friend Cletus!” Rawson exclaimed, then wrapped him in a bear hug and kissed him on both cheeks.
What the hell is going on here?
Clete’s hand was then enthusiastically shaken by a dozen officers, none of whom he recognized, as a beaming Perón watched.
Everybody sat down but General Rawson.
“Gentlemen,” Rawson began, “in this very room—well, not exactly, in that little room . . .”
He pointed to the bar, and there was dutiful laughter.
“. . . my dear friend, the late Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, whom God has seen fit to remove from our midst, talked many times to me of two things. One was the role he saw for light aircraft in the army. Frankly, I didn’t agree with him. But I never argued with him, because a wise man never argued with Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade. And he spoke with great pride of his son, Cletus, who was born here but raised by his mother’s family in the United States, after the tragic death of his mother when he was an infant.
“His son, Cletus, was an officer of the American Corps of Marines, a pilot. Jorge was not surprised. The blood of Juan Martín de Pueyrredón ran through his veins. Jorge told me with great and justifiable pride that Cletus had shot down seven of the enemy’s planes and been twice decorated with the Distinguished Flying Cross for his valor.
“And then Cletus was released from active duty for a physical problem, and came here to the land of his birth to be with his father. Then God in his wisdom took our beloved Jorge from us, just as he was about to lead us in the action we found it necessary to take in order to restore our beloved Argentina to democracy.
“Technically, that was none of Cletus Frade’s business. He was an American. But he knew that his father had been the principal author of Operation Blue. And when that action began, the blood of Pueyrredón, the blood of Jorge Guillermo Frade, coursing through his veins overcame consideratio
n of legal technicalities. He saw his duty.
“Cletus Frade flew his father’s airplane here to Campo de Mayo and placed it and himself at the service of the Ejército Argentino. If our action had failed, there is no question in my mind that he would have been standing beside me as we faced a firing squad.
“As our columns advanced on the Casa Rosada, I saw them. I saw them from a light airplane being flown with extraordinary skill by Cletus Frade. There was no longer any question in my mind about what El Coronel Frade believed about the role of light aircraft in the army.
“From the moment Cletus landed us back here on that historical day I wondered how I could recognize Cletus’s service to Argentina. He was not an officer in the Ejército Argentino, so I could neither promote him nor decorate him. Indeed, if I had decorated him, it would have gotten him in trouble with the U.S. government.
“And then, several days ago, El Coronel Juan Domingo Perón came to me and we talked about Juan Domingo’s godson, Don Cletus Frade. He told me that Cletus has actually become an Argentine. He has married an Argentine, and God is about to bless that union with a child. He has assumed control of his father’s business ventures. And El Coronel Perón told me that he is going to apply his aviation skills here in Argentina. South American Airways will soon take to the skies under our flag.
“And El Coronel Perón said, ‘What’s a little funny, Mr. President, is that Cletus will have to go through all the licensing examinations to get a pilot’s license, just as if he never flew before.’
“And at that moment, gentlemen, I knew how I could in some small way express my gratitude—indeed, that of the nation—to Don Cletus Frade for his valiant service to the republic.
“Gentlemen, as president of the Republic of Argentina, it is my pleasure to announce that Don Cletus Frade has been certified by the Aeronautics Division, Ministry of the Interior, Republic of Argentina, as a commercial aviation pilot. And more than that, his certificate will bear the signature of the president of the republic as the approving officer.”
He gestured to the aiguillette-draped major, then to Cletus to join him. The major now held a gold-framed document in his hands. As Rawson took it from him and handed it to Frade, the officers in the room stood and applauded.
General Rawson pumped Frade’s hand, then embraced and kissed him. Then Colonel Perón pumped Frade’s hand and kissed him.
“Thank you, Tío Juan,” Frade said.
Perón embraced him again.
Over his shoulder, Frade saw Colonel Alejandro Martín, chief of the Ethical Standards Office of the Bureau of Internal Security, looking at him and smiling.
Frade thought the smile was one of amusement, as if he and Frade shared a secret.
Colonel Martín showed up at the airfield as Frade was loading Enrico, the shotgun, the framed commercial aviation pilot certificate, and the twenty-liter can of aviation gas into the close confines of the rear seat of the cub.
Martín saluted Perón, shook hands with Delgano, and offered his hand to Frade.
“Congratulations on your certification, Don Cletus,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“May I ask a layman’s question?”
“Certainly.”
“Why are you taking gasoline with you?”
“To make sure that I have enough gasoline to get back to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo.”
Martín’s face was questioning.
“But if you flew here from Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo . . .”
You clever sonofabitch, you!
“Why do I need more gas to fly back than I did to get here?”
Martín nodded.
“It’s known as ‘winds aloft,’ ” Frade said. “If the wind is blowing on your tail, ‘a tailwind,’ you add the speed of the wind to the speed of the airplane to get your speed over the ground. However, if it is blowing against your nose, a ‘headwind,’ then you subtract the speed of the wind from the speed of the aircraft over the ground. I had a tailwind coming here, which meant that I had more than enough fuel. But I expect a headwind on the way back.”
“And what if you had had a headwind on your way here?”
“Then I would have had to turn back, come by car, and miss getting my license.”
“So, if you have to refuel on your way home, you will land on the pampas?”
“If I have to refuel, I will land on a road on the pampas, if I can find one. If not, then I would have to take a chance landing on the grassland.”
“Fascinating!”
“You must come fly with me sometime, Colonel.”
“I would like that, Don Cletus,” Martín said. “Actually, I came here for a quiet word with Colonel Perón. Normally, I would ask for a moment of the colonel’s time in private, but after that sterling tribute to your Argentine patriotism by General Rawson, I can see no reason I shouldn’t share this with you as well.”
“Share what, Martín?” Perón asked, more than a little impatiently.
“It would seem, sir, that the commercial attaché of the German embassy has disappeared.”
“What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?” Perón asked.
“They can’t find him or his wife,” Martín said, looking directly at Frade.
“What do you think happened to them?” Frade asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea right now, Don Cletus, but I think we’ll find out something soon.”
“If I happen to run into them,” Frade said, “you’ll be the first to know.”
“This is not a joke, Cletus,” Perón said sternly. “This is serious business. I need to find a telephone to call Generalmajor von Deitzberg and assure him the Argentine government will do everything in its power to get to the bottom of this.”
[SIX]
Near Olavarría Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1540 14 July 1943
The navigation chart being used by newly licensed commercial aviation pilot Don Cletus Frade did not have, so far as he could see, the location of any airfield marked on it. It had been published by the Automobile Club of Argentina for the use of touring motorists.
It had proved perfectly adequate, however, to get him where he was now, at an indicated altitude of fifteen hundred feet and about that far to the right of National Route Three.
The only man-made break in the sea of grass that was the pampas was Route Three, and he had seen very few cars and trucks on that narrow two-lane highway.
Clete put the Cub in a gentle climbing bank to the right, taking him farther away from Route Three. When he no longer could see the highway, he saw that the altimeter showed he was at thirty-five hundred feet. He straightened out and looked slowly at the pampas from horizon to horizon. There was absolutely nothing down there but cattle, clumps of trees, and grass.
He put the nose down and dropped to five hundred feet.
Then, as he looked over his shoulder and indicated with a pointing finger that they were going down, Enrico smiled wanly and made the sign of the cross.
Clete retarded the throttle until he felt the little airplane show the first signs of a stall.
Then he dropped the nose further, flared, and put the Cub on the ground. There was no sense making a flyover to see if he could see any obstacles in the grass; the grass was high enough to conceal a rock or tree stump or something else that would cause him to dump the plane.
He had dumped Cubs a half-dozen times while landing on the Texas prairie, twice flipping over, but without hurting himself. He thought that was the worst that could happen here—he’d dump the Cub and have to take a long hike over the pampas to Route Three, then wait for somebody to pick them up.
He knew that he had to see what was going on with the German couple from the embassy as soon as he could, although he wasn’t sure why. It probably would have been smarter to go back to the Big House at the estancia, then drive over to Tandil. But he had given in to his gut feeling that it was important to get there as soon as possible, and that meant flying there from Campo de Mayo,
knowing that he’d have to make a fuel stop in the middle of nowhere, and risk dumping the Cub.
Ten minutes after having transferred the gas in the can to the tank, he was airborne again.
And ten minutes after that, as a line of hills almost suddenly rose from the flat pampas, Enrico touched his shoulder and pointed at one of the higher hills. Clete turned toward the hill and in a few minutes saw that there was a house—and some small outbuildings—near the top of one of the hills.
Enrico touched his shoulder again and pointed.
Clete nodded, acknowledging that he had seen the landing strip. He was surprised a moment later to see a windsock to one side of the short strip.
He put the nose down and into the wind, looked at Enrico, and saw that Enrico was again invoking the mercy of the Deity.
As he landed, he got a pretty good look at the house—the strip had been carved out of the hill below the house. It was more of a cottage than a house, with a red-tile roof and a large plate-glass window in the front. There was even a small swimming pool.
A hilltop lovenest, he thought, and smiled at the thought of his father, with Claudia in the backseat, flying a Cub—maybe this one—into here with a weekend of whoopee on their minds.
He hadn’t seen the Horch or a truck, which meant that Dorotea was already on her way back to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, if not already there.
He turned the Cub around at the end of the runway and shut it down. From the house, two gauchos came trotting down a wide stairway; the steps appeared to be railroad ties.
One was Sargento Rodolfo Gómez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired. The other was Staff Sergeant Siegfried Stein, Signal Corps, U.S. Army. Gómez cradled a Mauser hunting rifle in his arms. Clete thought it was most likely the rifle— once his father’s—that Gómez had used to take out Oberst Grüner and Standartenführer Goltz at Samborombón Bay. Stein had a Thompson submachine gun hanging from his shoulder, and the butt of a Model 1911-A1 Colt could be seen sticking out of his wide gaucho belt.
When Clete had climbed out of the Cub, Stein saluted not very crisply. Gómez looked at him, then saluted.
Death and Honor Page 27