Death and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  The controller was laughing as he replied, “Three Four Three, you are cleared for multiple touch-and-goes. You are number one to land.”

  Twenty minutes later, Cletus Frade, having approached the runway threshold as low and slow as seemed appropriate based on the experience of two previous aborted landings, touched down very close to the threshold, quickly retarded the throttles, and, a moment later, gingerly applied the brakes. Long before he reached the halfway point of the runway, he decided he had more than enough of it left to stop before burning out the brakes.

  “We’re down, Howard. We seem to have cheated death again.”

  Hughes chuckled. “For a moment, I wasn’t too sure about that. Not bad, Little Cletus. There may be hope for you yet.”

  “This is a great airplane,” Clete said.

  “We think so. Just remember when you go to turn it around that it’s a great big airplane.”

  The proof of that came ten minutes later, when they tried to get off the Constellation. The airfield—which was apparently used as an auxiliary field for Air Force pilot training; Clete saw on the tarmac maybe a dozen North American AT-6 Texan two-seat advanced trainers, four Beech C-45 Expeditors used for twin-engine pilot training and for navigator training, and maybe a dozen Vultee BT-13 basic trainers—was not equipped with any sort of stairs or even maintenance scaffolding for an aircraft as high off the ground as the Constellation.

  The problem was finally solved—as what looked like all the pilots and student pilots of the AT-6s, the C-45s, and the BT-13s gathered to watch—by leaning against the Constellation’s fuselage a very tall stepladder otherwise used to change the lights in the hangar ceilings.

  By the time that was done, there were two staff cars and two lieutenant colonels on the tarmac.

  “Let me deal with this,” Colonel Graham said, and carefully got on the ladder and climbed down it.

  Three minutes later, he climbed back up.

  “I’m going out to Camp Clinton to have a look at Colonel Frogger,” Graham announced to Howard and Clete. “I may or may not be back tonight. The base commander here will take care of the enlisted people. There’s a transient BOQ here, and an officers’ club. Do I have to remind you two to behave yourselves? ”

  [FIVE]

  Officers’ Club Jackson Army Air Base Jackson, Mississippi 1745 5 August 1943

  The officers’ club was almost the opposite of elegant. It occupied the lower floor of a simple wooden two-story building. Twelve Transient Bachelor Officers’ Quarters—cubicles of plywood furnished with two beds, two tables, and two chairs—were upstairs and had a common latrine.

  There were two virtually identical buildings on either side of the officers’ club, all four devoted to housing transient officers—almost always instructor pilots and their students—who for one reason or another had to spend the night at the auxiliary field.

  There were two parts to the club, The Mess and The Lounge. The mess was a cafeteria serving Army-style food. Two tables, each seating four, had white tablecloths and bore signs lettered FIELD GRADE OFFICERS, which meant majors and up.

  They had waiter service. Everybody else walked the cafeteria line while holding a Masonite tray on which they loaded food selected from steam trays, then carried their tray to one of the thirty four-place tables covered with oilcloth.

  When Hughes and Frade walked into the officers’ mess, Major Frade, who was a field-grade officer in another life, took one look at the field-grade officers’ tables and motioned for Hughes to get into the cafeteria line.

  There was a small problem after they had selected their dinner and tried paying for it. Hughes attempted to pay the cashier—an Air Forces sergeant—with a crisp hundred-dollar bill, one of a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills he had in his shirt pocket.

  “I can’t cash something like that, for Christ’s sake!” the sergeant said.

  Cletus Frade, likewise, had nothing smaller than hundred-dollar bills in his wallet. He also had some Argentine, Brazilian, and Mexican currencies, but the Air Forces sergeant quickly rejected these as well, asking, “For Christ’s sake, does this look like a fucking bank?”

  Five minutes later, the cashier returned from The Lounge and counted out and handed to Howard Hughes his change. It came in the form of bills, nothing larger than a five, and several rolls of nickels, dimes, and quarters—a total of $99.30, the cost of each of their meals being thirty-five cents.

  By then, there were perhaps twenty officers, almost all of them pilots and lieutenants, backed up behind them in the line, each holding their Masonite tray of dinner.

  The food was surprisingly good.

  Afterward, they went into The Lounge. It was somewhat dimly lit. There was a bar with a dozen stools and twelve or fifteen four-man tables, these covered with festive bright red oilcloths. The bar stools were all occupied, as were all but two tables at the far end of the room.

  Clete and Howard headed for these. They sat at one of them and almost immediately were able to deduce that the tables had not been occupied because they were right in front of an enormous wall-mounted fan that sucked the outside Mississippi midsummer’s humid air into the building and forced it through The Lounge in the hope that it would cool.

  Five minutes after that, Clete concluded there was no waiter service.

  “I think we have to go to the bar,” he announced.

  “Go see if they’ll sell us a bottle, Cletus. We can take it to our room.”

  “I don’t have any money they’ll take.”

  “And after all I’ve done for you today!”

  Hughes walked to the bar, patiently awaited his turn, and returned to the table holding two glasses, each holding what looked like a single ice cube.

  “They won’t sell us a bottle, and you can’t take glasses out of the room,” he reported.

  “What is this?” Clete said after sipping his drink.

  “Rye whiskey.”

  “No bourbon?”

  “Stupid question, Little Cletus.”

  “Mud in your eye, Howard!”

  “Fuck you, Little Cletus!”

  They tapped glasses.

  Five minutes later, three Air Force officers—two captains and a lieutenant, all wearing wings—approached the table.

  “Oh, shit . . .” Hughes and Frade muttered almost simultaneously.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” the captain said.

  “Good evening,” Frade and Hughes replied almost simultaneously.

  “Could you spare a moment for the Army Air Force?” the shorter of the two captains said.

  “Certainly,” Hughes said.

  They’re half in the bag, Frade thought. And belligerent.

  How do I handle this?

  Show them my Marine major’s identification?

  Or my OSS badge?

  Either one will raise more questions with these guys than it will answer.

  “You came in with that big airplane, am I right?” the short captain went on.

  “Yes, we did,” Hughes said.

  “I never saw one of those before. What is it?”

  “It’s a Lockheed C-69. They call it the Constellation,” Hughes said.

  “You were flying it, were you?”

  “Yes. He and I were flying it,” Hughes said, indicating Frade with a nod of his head.

  “Had a little trouble, did you? That’s why you set down here?”

  “We erred on the side of caution,” Frade said.

  “You ‘erred on the side of caution’? You mean, you were just being careful?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Frade said.

  “Where’d you come from? In other words, where are you based?”

  “At the Lockheed plant in Burbank,” Hughes replied.

  “And where are you headed? Where were you headed, before you erred on the side of caution and landed here?”

  “I’m afraid that’s classified,” Frade said.

  The short captain’s chest seemed to puff out. “What did y
ou say?”

  “I said, I’m afraid that’s classified,” Frade repeated.

  “You’re a civilian, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  "But you do recognize this uniform? You understand I’m a captain in the Army Air Force?”

  “Of course,” Frade said.

  “So here you sit, a goddamn civilian in an Army Air Force officers’ club on an Army Air Force field, into which you flew an Air Force airplane—”

  “Excuse me, Captain,” a voice said somewhat sharply.

  Frade turned and in the dim lighting saw an Army MP officer, a major, in full regalia, MP brassard, and a white leather Sam Browne belt with a .45 ACP pistol in a white holster.

  What the hell is this all about? Clete thought, then took a closer look at the military police officer. Jesus, am I losing my mind?

  “All I was doing, Major,” the Army Air Force captain said, suddenly not so cocksure, “was asking this civilian—”

  “You didn’t get the word that no one was to attempt to speak to these gentlemen? To communicate in any way with them?” Second Lieutenant Leonard Fischer, Signal Corps, demanded rather nastily.

  “Huh?”

  “The response I expect from you, Captain, is ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir.’ Now, which is it?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t hear anything about anything like that.”

  “Well, now you have,” Fischer said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I suggest that on your way to your quarters, you spread the word.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The two captains and the lieutenant made a beeline for the door.

  Fischer turned to Hughes and Frade.

  “Now, what are you two doing in here? You were told to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

  "We were going to have a drink in our room, Major,” Clete said. “But they wouldn’t sell us a bottle or let us take glasses from the bar.”

  “Well, if you insist on drinking, you’ll have to do it in your quarters,” Fischer said. “Go to them now. I will bring you something to drink. You understand I’ll have to tell the colonel about this.”

  Five minutes later, the MP major, carrying a bottle of rye whiskey, glasses, and a small tin bucket full of ice, walked into BOQ Room 7, which was being shared by Frade and Hughes.

  “A little warm in here, isn’t it?” the MP said.

  “Howard, say hello to Second Lieutenant Len Fischer of the Signal Corps,” Frade said.

  Hughes did not appear to be surprised to learn Fischer was neither a major nor an MP. The two wordlessly shook hands.

  “Actually, it’s first lieutenant,” Fischer said. “As of two days ago.”

  Hughes relieved Fischer of the bottle of whiskey and the glasses and began to pour.

  “You are going to tell us where you got the MP uniform? And the major’s leaf?” Frade asked.

  “At Fort Myer,” Fischer said. “Early this morning. Two guys from the OSS showed up at Vint Hill Farms with a letter of instructions and the photographs we took of the Froggers at Casa Chica—”

  “Where?” Hughes interrupted.

  “Casa Chica,” Frade explained, “a small estancia where we’ve stashed the Froggers.” He turned to Fischer and asked, “What instructions?”

  “The letter said I was to go to Camp Clinton, as an MP major, give the photographs to Colonel Frogger, say nothing, answer no questions, and wait for him there.”

  “You’ve seen Frogger?” Clete asked.

  Fischer nodded. Hughes handed him a drink.

  “What’s he like?”

  “More like his father than his mother. Smaller than I expected him to be. Anyway, they took me to the MP battalion at Fort Myer, got me suited up like this, and then took me to Bolling Air Force Base, loaded me on a B-26—that was an experience—and flew me down here.

  “A light colonel from Camp Clinton met me, and took me out there, and put me together with Frogger. They had him in a room in a small wooden building. He had a duffel bag with him.”

  “And?” Clete asked.

  “I did what Colonel Graham’s letter said to do. I walked in and saluted, and said, in German, ‘Colonel Frogger, I have been instructed to give you these photographs, ’ and gave them to him. They shook him up, obviously, and he asked what was going on. I told him he would be informed in good time, saluted him again, and left. And waited for Colonel Graham to show up.”

  “You think he recognized you in the pictures?” Clete said. “You were in civvies.”

  Fischer shrugged, then took a close look at Hughes.

  “You’re Howard Hughes,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Hughes said.

  “The pilot, the movie guy,” Fischer went on.

  “Right again, Len,” Frade said. “You have just won the cement bicycle for celebrity spotting. Give him your autograph, Howard.”

  Hughes gave Frade the finger.

  “What are you doing here?” Fischer asked.

  “The same thing you are, pal,” Hughes said. “Waiting for Graham to tell me what to do.”

  “Welcome to the OSS, Len,” Frade said.

  “You’re in the OSS?” Fischer asked Hughes.

  “Sometimes it feels that way, but, technically, no.”

  “And I am?” Fischer asked.

  “I don’t know if you are, technically,” Frade said. “But if I had to bet, I’d say you are.”

  “I’m out of Vint Hill Farms? Out of the ASA?”

  “I think when this is over,” Frade said, “Graham will send you back there. You’re very useful there. Unless something unexpected comes up, of course, and something unexpected will probably come up.”

  “So what happens now?” Fischer asked.

  Now Frade shrugged.

  “I know not what course others may take,” Hughes intoned solemnly, “but as for me, give me rye whiskey when bourbon and scotch are not available.”

  He reached for the bottle.

  Colonel A. F. Graham came into BOQ Room 7 ninety minutes later, just as Howard Hughes was shaking the last drops of the rye whiskey into his glass.

  “You’re out of luck, Alex, the booze is all gone,” Hughes said.

  “You two are going to have to fly tomorrow,” Graham said. “And you’re drinking?”

  “Only this one bottle,” Hughes said. “And it was nowhere near full when Len here brought it to us.”

  Graham didn’t reply. He turned to Frade.

  “I really wish you had a uniform. And a haircut. But there wasn’t time, so we’ll have to go with what we have.”

  “Go where? And what do we have?” Frade asked.

  “Don’t push me, Clete,” Graham said. “I’m not in a very good mood.”

  “You couldn’t turn the Kraut?” Hughes asked.

  Graham shook his head. “I’m still working on shaking him up. And I haven’t done well at that. He knows all about the Geneva Convention and enough about the United States to know we scrupulously follow them.”

  “A real Nazi, huh?” Frade said. “A chip off the ol’ block—his mother’s block?”

  “No. He’s more like his father. Go by the book. The book says don’t cooperate with the enemy, and that’s it, so far as he’s concerned.”

  “What did he have to say about us having his parents?”

  “I refused to discuss that. And when I asked him how familiar he was with Putzi Hanfstaengl, he said he’d never heard of him. Where he is now is in a room, alone, guarded by a couple of MPs. I told him he is not going back into the camp as a prisoner. I wouldn’t discuss that, either. I’m going to let him stew there overnight, and let you have a go at him in the morning. You, or you and Fischer. Your call.”

  “I want Len there.”

  “Okay. Now, why don’t we all go to bed?”

  XV

  [ONE]

  Senior German Officer Prisoner of War Detention Facility Camp Clinton, Mississippi 0915 6 August 1943

  It had been a thirty-mi
nute drive in a 1941 Chevrolet Army staff car from Jackson Army Air Base to the POW camp, down a narrow macadam road that cut through the loblolly pine trees of rural central Mississippi.

  When they got close to the base—signs on what had been a farmer’s fence read KEEP OUT! U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY—Frade started looking for the barbed-wire fences and observation towers of a POW camp. There were none.

  Their driver turned off of the macadam onto a rutted red clay road, and two hundred yards down that saw a guard shack in the center of the road manned by a pair of armed MPs in uniform. A curved sign erected over the shack read PRISONER OF WAR CAMP. Below that, in smaller letters, it said CLINTON, MISSISSIPPI, and below that was a square sign reading, VISITING PROHIBITED.

  Frade noted that now there was a single coil of concertina marking the perimeter.

  “Not much barbed wire,” he observed aloud as the staff car pulled to a stop at the guard shack.

  “Yeah,” Fischer said. “Why is that?”

  “Where are they going to go if they escape?” Graham replied. “This is the middle of nowhere. The wire’s more of a psychological barrier; it serves as a reminder of where they are.”

  One of the guards in the shack came out, looked into the car, and then sort of came to attention and saluted. Graham was in uniform, as was Fischer, who was riding in the front seat.

  Frade was annoyed: If a Marine saluted a full bull colonel that sloppily, he’d find himself suddenly practicing the rendering of the hand salute for the next two weekends.

  “We’re expected,” Graham said as he returned the salute.

  “Yes, sir,” the guard said, and walked to a counterbalanced striped barrier pole and raised it. Then he gestured somewhat impatiently for the staff car to pass.

  Five hundred yards from the gate was a copse of trees and beyond that another fence. It was a standard chain-link fence that looked as if it belonged in someone’s backyard and might, Clete thought, pose a problem for a six-year-old to climb over.

  Inside the fence line were small groups of German officers, perhaps two dozen men in all, apparently out for a morning stroll.